The Pulver Chronicles – 24. On The Hardest Mile

One of the first things Jackson discovered about war was how it somehow made time go simultaneously slower and faster. Every time the tribe launched a raid he had planned but didn’t take part in, it felt like every hour spent waiting for the raiding party to come back lasted days. And when they got back to the Vertrisian Forest, the days until the next raid seemed to just fly by, giving him and Byron just enough time to plan and prepare.

The war was going… Actually, Jackson wasn’t sure how the war was going. All he knew of it was what he saw during the ambushes, what he heard from rumors, and what he learned from the occasional reports of the Elves when their traders came by. Overall, it seemed to go pretty badly for the Southern Marches. A lot of land had been conquered by the Archdemons already; somewhere between a fifth and a fourth, depending on who you asked. A few of the marquesses’ castles and towers had been taken, as well; one or two, allegedly, were even taken without a fight or a siege, fueling rumors as to their marquesses’ allegiance. The Marquesses’ armies put together numbered a lot less than the Hexacracy’s, but the real issue beyond the numbers was that nearly each march was strictly fighting for its own, it seemed. There was no alliance, no concertation, no overarching effort to oppose a united front against the invaders. Worse yet, some rumors had it that at least one marquess had taken advantage of the conflict to invade and annex his neighbor. “Divide and conquer” was in full swing, in other words. As to the Empire, it had raised its armies, but it would still be some time before they could meet the Hexacracy in battle.

Byron didn’t seem worried, though. According to him, the war was going as well as could be expected. Although it was still early in the conflict, he believed his strategy was working. The Hellhounds definitely had a gift for asymmetrical warfare. Their ambushes were quick, precise, and deadly. There had been casualties in their own ranks, inevitably, but considerably less than what they had inflicted on the Hexacracy. In addition, those attacks had the positive effect of bringing the tribes closer together. With each passing day, it seemed the Hellhounds were becoming less of a smattering of tribes and more of a united people.

The repeated raids on the enemy’s logistics had managed to hinder their war effort, as planned. In one case, the siege of a marquess’ castle had to be lifted due to a lack of supplies. Jackson didn’t think that was good news, at first, as eventually the Hexacracy had simply stormed the castle instead, and took it anyway.

“Taking a castle like this is not a simple matter,” Byron then explained. “It takes a lot more manpower and logistics -and costs a lot more of both, too.”

The two of them were discussing the war around a coffee table -it really was more of a roughly cut plate of wood on four small tree stumps. It was as of yet the only real furniture in Jackson’s and Sathariel’s tent, aside from the cots and the pelt used as a carpet. On the table was the map of the Southern Marches Jackson had bought before leaving Atvello. A few small rocks served to indicate the progression of the Hexacrat’s armies, and seeds were used to represent the places where caravans had been attacked. It wasn’t very accurate, due to the aforementioned lack of information, especially when it came to numbers. 

Byron spent hours every day observing that map; he had probably long since memorized every river and every patch of wood in the Southern Marches.

“From what we heard, the Hexacracy only lost a couple hundred soldiers,” Jackson said.

“An initial estimate. The actual figures are probably higher.”

“Even if it’s twice as many, they have tens of thousands of soldiers. That’s not much of a difference.”

“On its own, no,” Byron said. “But it adds up. Those losses must be compensated. No doubt the Hexacracy has reserves, but they likely mean to use them for other, bigger purposes. This was just one minor castle, and a small fief. Now, say several other minor engagements end up costing more lives than the Hexacracy had planned. Say, on top of that, that several issues pop up concerning the supplies of several campaigning armies. This will make things more complicated for the Archdemons.”

“Okay?…” Jackson said.

“From there, there are two possibilities. One, they rethink their strategy, for starters by rethinking their logistic situation. Upgrading their caravans’ protection, for instance.”

“That wouldn’t be good for us.”

“No, but it wouldn’t be good for them either. More protection requires more soldiers, more weapons, more horses. And that too adds up. Alternatively, they could also choose to carry less goods with their caravans, making attacking them not worth it for bandits and skirmishers, but that means they’ll have to create more caravans to keep their armies supplied. The result will be much the same.”

“That’s option one. What’s option two?”

“Option two, they decide to keep the same strategy, and compensate for their lost supplies.”

“Compensate how?” Jackson asked.

“By living off the land.”

“You mean looting.”

“Yes, and foraging. Stealing crops, looting villages, perhaps even enslaving resisting populations and selling them -or, if that’s too much of a hassle, killing them.”

“Fuck,” Jackson grumbled.

“It’s a common practice in times of war,” Byron said. “It’s efficient, too, but it causes a few issues.”

“Let me guess: morals ain’t one of them.”

Byron’s lips stretched into a faint, sad smile. “By the time one starts a war, morals have long ceased being an issue. But as to the looting, it creates two problems. First of all, it diverts soldiers, and leaves them vulnerable to skirmishers.”

“Now that is good for us.”

“For us and for the marquesses, yes. Second of all, it creates fear and anger in the population.”

“No kidding,” Jackson said. “But I doubt the Archdemons care much for the people.”

“No, but remember that for the Hexacracy, this is a war of conquest. Their goal is to take the Southern Marches, and hold them. The latter will be made much more difficult if the local population hates them.”

Jackson frowned with skepticism. “Doubt they’ll care about that either. I mean, if they’re here to stay, they probably figure the locals will calm down and accept their rule eventually.”

“Yes: eventually. But here’s the thing: the Hexacracy’s real enemy in this war is not the Southern Marches, but the Empire.”

“Right,” Jackson said, “but they won’t be here for weeks, and the real war will not start before months.”

“Correct,” Byron said. “The Hexacracy’s strategy, from what we know of it, is to have the core parts of the Southern Marches occupied by the time the Empire arrives: its strongest fortresses, its trade lanes, its biggest cities… Some are already doubting that they will succeed.”

“Okay.” The young man was still not sure where Byron was going with this.

“Now picture this: the Hexacracy’s offensive is costing them more men and supplies than they had anticipated. The looting may be able to compensate for the lost supplies, and they may be able to replace the men -in time. But this slows them down. And meanwhile, unrest is growing in the Southern Marches. This means more resistance on the internal front, but also more support for the Empire, who will be seen even by skeptics and independentists as a better alternative than the Hexacracy. That support will prove invaluable for the Empire.”

“How? You think the peasants are going to revolt?”

“There’ll probably be some villages who will try to fight back against the raiders, but I doubt they’ll achieve much before being suppressed. It will contribute to further hindering the Hexacrat armies’ progression, though. But the real issue is that more and more villages, then cities, then marches will willingly join the Empire for protection. It was already going to happen, but with our “help”, it will be faster and more widespread. Their militias and their armies will bolster their ranks. Their supplies will come to aid the imperial armies. Locals will inform them on the geography, on the enemy’s troop movements, and such. That too will make a huge difference.”

“A huge difference? Intel?” 

Jackson’s skepticism turned into disbelief. He wasn’t sure why he reacted like that. Byron was far more knowledgeable than he in such matters, he knew that; in fact, that was the whole reason Jackson had convinced him to join the war effort.

“Intelligence is extremely important,” Byron replied calmly. “If money is the nerve of war, then intelligence is its muscle. There is no point in having the largest armies if you don’t know how and where to deploy them. Or worse yet: if you end up sending them into a trap. So, with the locals’ knowledge of the terrain, and their support, the imperial armies will be able to progress quickly and efficiently in the Southern Marches.”

“Quickly enough that the Hexacracy won’t have time to capture the majority of it,” Jackson concluded.

“With a bit of luck, yes.”

“Luck?” The young man leaned on the table, his elbows touching the map.

“Luck is also important in war. There’ll always be some factors we can’t control. Bad weather, disease, accidents… Even the best strategist out there will still need luck. But if he’s really good, he won’t need too much of it.”

 “I guess. Well, is there anything else we could do to need less luck?”

Byron reported his attention to the map. “I’m still thinking about that. Why? Did you have any suggestions?”

“Not really… Just, I was wondering if maybe we could do better than ambushing small groups here and there. I mean, that’s good, I see how that’s good. But, like, can’t we do something bigger?”

“You mean attacking an army?”

“Well, maybe not an actual army. We could start with, like, a cohort, or a division, or whatever a smaller army is called.”

Byron crossed his arms, his face impassive. Jackson knew from his body language that the veteran was about to teach him another lesson. He sighed under his breath and braced himself for it.

“Okay,” Byron said. “And how would you go about doing that?”

“I mean, same way we do with the caravans. We find out where they are, where they’re going, how many guys they’ve got, and we plan accordingly.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Guess I have,” Jackson said, mildly irritated. “Enlighten me.”

“What is the one factor that is critical to Hellhounds in their current situation? One thing we made sure to maintain so far?”

Jackson sighed. “I don’t much care for the Aristotle thing. Just tell me.”

“The Aristotle thing?” Byron frowned.

“That thing where you ask questions to make me understand stuff.”

“The Socratic method?”

“Whatever.” Jackson rolled his eyes. “Just tell me what I’m missing.”

“Discretion, Jackson,” Byron said. “How do you plan on eliminating hundreds, even thousands of soldiers without attracting the Hexacracy’s attention?”

Jackson grumbled. It was a good point; an excellent point, even. One of the keys to the Rebellion’s recent successes laid in the fact that, so far, the Hexacracy continued to ignore its existence. Like Byron predicted, they seemed to have blamed the attacks on local bandits or on marquesses’ armies. An unsuspecting enemy was always easier to defeat. But if the Archdemons were to learn that the Hellhounds were behind them, that they still represented a threat, there was no telling what they would do. It was well within the realm of possibility that they would seek to locate where the Hellhounds had their base of operations, and divert one or several of their armies to launch a direct attack.

And, as fearsome as the Hellhounds were in combat, it was doubtful they would win a ranged battle against the full might of the Hexacracy. While they would certainly have the advantage of terrain in the Vertrisian Forest, the Hexacrat armies greatly outnumbered them. Jackson feared the most likely outcome of such a scenario would be a long, brave fight that would ultimately end in another Dusk Steppe. And, as Alizana had said, if the Hellhounds were to lose the Vertrisian Forest, where would they go? Where would they hide?…

“Maybe if we attack one of their camps at night,” Jackson suggested. “They did that before.”

Realization hit him as soon as he said that.

“Yes, and the Hexacracy learned of it, and in response, the Archdemons raised two armies.” Byron sniffed, then went back to studying the map. “Hiding a few ambushes is one thing, Jackson. It’s another entirely to hide a larger assault. Bandits and militias do not go after army camps. If your Hellhounds were to attack a small army and destroy it -which, I’ll grant you, they probably can-, there would be no explanation for the Hexacracy. No explanation, that is, except the truth.”

“Right,” Jackson said, dropping his head. “Then maybe we could, err, defend those villages they’ll target. For all they’ll know, it’ll be the peasants mounting a good defense.”

“Good enough to eliminate a raiding band? Maybe. But given that we’ll probably be only able to defend the villages close to the Vertrisian Forest, the Hexacracy might use that to locate us.”

“Okay, but… Damn, we really have to do more. Don’t we? We have to find a way to strike the Hexacracy in a way that really hurts. I mean, that’s how you win wars, right? By killing enemy soldiers.”

“Yes and no. You win wars by diminishing or even destroying your enemy’s ability to wage war.”

“Like by killing their soldiers,” the young man insisted.

“There’s a little more to it than that, thankfully.”

“Why thankfully?” Jackson asked.

“Do you truly believe the Hexacracy has launched all of their forces in the South? No. Most likely, they can raise more.”

“Well, why don’t they? This is gonna be a big war, they might as well go all in.”

“Logistics, Jackson, logistics,” Byron said, with the patient insistence of a teacher trying to hammer a lesson through a student’s thick skull. “Every soldier raised needs to be trained, armed, clothed, fed, and housed. That’s why logistics are important. The more soldiers you deploy, the bigger the need for logistics. And you can only drain your ressources so far before they run out.”

The young man hummed. “So you’re saying we have to hit their supplies even harder?”

“I’m saying you don’t necessarily win wars by simply killing soldiers.”

“Right, but you also said that it takes time to replace every soldier that falls in battle. And time is not on the Hexacracy’s side.”

Jackson repressed a smile when he saw Byron hesitate. This time, he had made a point.

“True, but I’m not saying it’s a bad tactic. I’m saying it’s not feasible for us, unless you want to see the Vertrisian Forest being besieged -or maybe just burned down.”

“There’s gotta be a way,” Jackson said doggedly. “And let’s be honest, we won’t be able to stay under the radar forever anyway. Sooner or later, the Hexacracy is going to figure us out.”

“I agree, actually,” Byron said. “But later is fine. Ideally, later will happen when the Empire is in the picture, giving the Hexacracy a bigger fish to fry.”

The young man pondered that for a little while. He agreed that was probably the safest course of action, only acting in the open after the imperial armies had arrived in the Southern Marches, thus basically creating a second front. Yes, later would be safer. But then, later could also be too late. The entire strategy so far relied on the idea that the Hexacracy and the Empire would wear each other out during the conflict, allowing the Rebellion to either fight them off, or at the very least negotiate with one or both sides. If the Empire were to meet the Hexacracy while the latter had strengthened its hold over the Southern Marches, just as the Archdemons were planning, their conflict could end early -to the great disfavor of the Hellhounds.

Their little strategic meeting went on for a while, but didn’t lead to any breakthroughs. Days passed, during which Jackson kept thinking about the Southern Marches’ population, and the fate many of them would suffer at the hands of the Archdemons’ armies. One morning, Jackson felt the need to blow off some steam. He decided chopping some firewood would be the best way to do that, and went to the storage yurt to grab an ax. As he did, he stumbled on Sathariel; almost literally: Sathariel was kneeling in front of a pile of stuff, and Jackson nearly tripped over him.

“Hello, Jack,” the young Demon said.

“Hey, Seth,” Jackson said. He noticed his friend was rummaging through the stock of clothes, creating small piles around him. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, ah… It’s an idea I had.”

“An idea?”

He peered down the little piles. They were made out of the pieces of clothing and armor that had been looted during the raids. Sathariel was apparently sorting them out by the levels of damage they had received.

“Getting yourself a new suit of armor?” Jackson said. “I thought you didn’t want to take part in the raids anymore.”

“No, I don’t, but… Ah!”

The Demon smiled in triumph as he found a helmet that was undamaged. Some blood soiled its lower part, however, which Sathariel cleaned out with a wet rag. He then put it on, and decided it was roughly the right size.

“Great, that makes it complete.”

“Hold on,” Jackson said, looking more closely at the pieces his friend had picked out. “Isn’t that an officer’s armor?”

“It is!” Sathariel said, taking off the helmet.

“Is your idea to do a costumed play?”

The Demon laughed. “In a way, yes. You see, Nadikel and I were talking the other day… Well, I was talking, obviously, but he knows how to communicate when he needs to. He doesn’t know how to write quite so well -and I don’t know how to read so well either-, but he’s a decent drawer.”

Jackson smiled at his friend’s rambling. He had noted, as he got to know him better, that the Demon had a tendency to do that when he was nervous, or scared, or excited. This seemed to be the latter.

“We discussed our service in the Hexacrat army, for the most part. Traded anecdotes -painful ones, almost exclusively. He had been drafted too; some Legionnaires went by his village and rounded up half of the available men. Soon after the war started, he tried to desert by sneaking out of his camp, but he got caught by a patrol, and, well… You know what happened. After that, he roamed the Southern Marches for a while, until he was found by a Hellhound party. Thankfully, they realized he was harmless, so-”

“Pretty sure you’re drifting away from your point, Seth,” Jackson said. “You said you had an idea?”

“Ah, right. Uh, yes. So, we were talking about his escape attempt. I found it a bit surprising that he could sneak out of a camp like that. As I remember, they were quite well-guarded; no one comes in, no one comes out. But he made me realize: no one comes out… except the patrols. Oh, and the caravans, of course. And occasionally the couriers. And obviously, if they can come out, they can come in too.”

“So… You want to infiltrate a Hexacrat camp, dressed as an officer?”

“Yes, exactly!”

“Okay, and why would you do that?” Jackson asked.

Sathariel began taking off his own clothes, stripping down to his underwear. Jackson didn’t move or turn around to give him some privacy. The two had been sleeping in the same tent for a while now, so they were both used to this sort of thing. Then, Sathariel put on the officer’s outfit, a bit clumsily. Jackson helped him with the armor.

“You remember this conversation we had some time ago? How I would like to do more for the Rebellion? Well, I think I figured out what I can do.”

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna sneak in a camp to kill a general or something.”

“I suppose it would probably help us a lot, but…” Sathariel chuckled nervously. “No, no. No, I can’t do that. No. I was thinking of something simpler, but effective as well.”

“Yeah?”

“Imagine I managed to enter a camp, and was allowed to roam freely. Think of all the information I could get my hands on. The people talking, the maps, the documents…”

Jackson scratched his four o’clock shadow -which was now pretty much an actual beard. “Aaah, I see. You want to do some old fashioned spying.”

“Yes!” Sathariel said excitedly. “Spying, exactly.”

“I’m not an expert, but aren’t spies supposed to be good at lying?” Jackson said, amused.

“I’ve proven to be quite good at that, actually.” With a wry smile, he added: “Hard to survive on the street by being honest. Now, help me out with this, will you?”

The young man nodded. Tying Sathariel’s chest plate properly took a few tries. The first time, Jackson tied too loose. The second was too tight. The last attempt was pretty tight as well, but Sathariel said it was fine. Jackson took a step back to look at him. The result was actually pretty convincing. Although…

“Boots could use with a wash,” Jackson said.

Sathariel peered down, and noticed the blood spatters on the side. “Ah, aye. Other than that?”

“Other than that, you look like you’re about to make me do push-ups until I puke.”

“Then it’s perfect,” he laughed.

“Spies also have to be sneaky,” Jackson said. “I’m guessing that won’t be much of an issue either.”

“Safe to say, it won’t be the first time I’ll be places I’m not supposed to be. So… What do you think? Of the whole idea?”

The young man scratched the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “I think… I think it could be pretty dangerous.”

Am I the one saying that? he thought. Most of my ideas are about as dangerous as this one! And since when am I the one who advises caution? Guess Byron has been rubbing off on me…

“If only,” Byron said.

“I know,” Sathariel said. “But then, our lives have been in danger ever since we became Nehan, haven’t they? As Alizana said, we are part of this Rebellion, even if we only take passive roles.”

“Sure, but…” Jackson tutted. “Bah, you know what? If you wanna go for it, then go for it, Seth. This is a good idea. Just don’t do anything foolish.”

And now I’m saying that? When was the last time I did something unfoolish?

“No worries on that,” Sathariel said. “I’ll do my very best to avoid attention. Unwise are the spies who would do otherwise.” He frowned. “I didn’t mean for that to rhyme.”

“Maybe if this doesn’t pan out, you can try being a poet.”

The young Demon snorted.

“What?” he said, noticing Jackson was staring at the top of his head.

“You should cut your hair first. I doubt any Hexacrat officer is rocking the “bushy, just rolled out of bed” look.”

“Ah, well…” Sathariel tried to tame down the bush, once again breaking a few hairs as he did. “I don’t think we have a barber in camp. Or in any other camp. The Hellhounds don’t look like they ever cut a single hair off their head.”

“There is one,” Jackson said, thumbing his chest.

Sathariel chuckled in surprise, but agreed to the unspoken offer. He went to pick a spot near the center of the camp while Jackson gathered a few tools: a pair of scissors -it was a nice surprise to learn that this world had invented them-, a few brushes, and a jar of hair pomade.

In truth, Jackson presenting himself as a barber was a bit of an exaggeration. He had only cut hair about a dozen times, mostly on Mrs Dorsett -and a couple of times on sheep. So he offered Sathariel pretty much the only haircut he knew that would work with the young Demon’s head’s unique features -his horns-: a slick back undercut. The young Demon had no idea what that was or what it looked like, but trusted Jackson.

His hair had a rather thick texture, and even wet was difficult to cut properly. Jackson blamed the scissors under his breath, but they were actually of good quality; the Elves were competent toolmakers. Said hair was also nice to the touch, although it definitely needed that wash. Once cleaned and brushed, it was soft and wavy, nothing like the knotty bush it was before. Overall, the job took about half an hour, as Jackson had decided to really take his time, to ensure he wouldn’t risk messing up his friend’s hair. As was the tradition for all barbers and hair stylists in all places and time periods, Jackson concluded by handing Sathariel a mirror to show him the result. The Demon’s eyes went wide.

“Damn.”

“Is that a good damn?” Jackson asked, a little worried.

“It is!” He brushed the sides of his hair. “You’re very good at this.”

“Eh, let’s just say practice makes perfect.” Touching the tips on the back of his friend’s head, he added: “It’s not very even in the back.”

“I don’t care about a little imperfection. It looks more natural that way.” He prodded his hair again. “You used a lot of pomade, though.”

“Kinda had to. That jungle just wouldn’t be tamed.” Jackson that the top of his friend’s head.

“So you drowned it instead.” Sathariel laughed. “Well, I feel ready now. I’ll be the best looking officer the Hexacrat armies… never had.”

“Yeah, uh, about that, Seth. I’ve been thinking.” He sat down on a log.

Sathariel raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think it’s a good idea anymore?”

“No, no, no. It’s just… Have you ever done anything like it before?”

“If you mean impersonating an officer, then no. But as I said, I did similar things before. I’ve been part of this army, I know how they work -roughly.”

“Still, maybe you should start with something simpler,” Jackson said.

The young Demon’s face dropped. “You don’t believe I can do this.”

“I- No! No, it’s not that. It’s just… This is not a simple thing, infiltrating a military camp. You need to prepare, to come up with a plan. I mean, do you even know which camp you want to infiltrate? Or where they are? Hell, do you know you’re going to enter a camp? I mean, you can’t just walk to the gates and knock.”

“That’s a good point,” Sathariel said, clicking his tongue. “As to the camps and where they are, the Elves have reported a few armies on the move, to the northwest. Any one of them will do.” He hesitated. “Well, provided they are not made up of warrior-monks. Their armor looks nothing like mine. I’ve also been told that they use some sort of secret code, or maybe even a secret language.”

“Right,” Jackson said. “Then maybe you should start with that: finding out which army you can sneak into, and which one you had better not.”

“All right, that makes sense. But how?”

Jackson bit his lower lip, thinking intensively. His mind went back to something he and Byron had discussed earlier. And to an idea he had begun to develop.

“What about their raiding bands?” he said.

“Eh?”

The young man gave his friend the Reader’s Digest version of the aforementioned conversation. Sathariel looked impressed when he was done.

“You- Wow. You’ve really thought this through. I thought you’d never been to war before, or studied at a military academy, but you’re actually really good at this.”

Jackson hesitated. So far, he had kept quiet about his ethereal bodymate -a word he had coined-, worried people, specifically people close to him, might react poorly; it was after all the result of a Forbidden Arcane. But… Ah, to Hell with it. He deserves to know. He decided, however, to wait for a better time, possibly one that would include a little alcohol to soothe the passions.

“Yeah, not really. I’ll explain later.”

“Hum, all right,” Sathariel said. “So, the Hexacracy will be sending raiding bands to the villages.”

“Right. Maybe you could try infiltrating one of those. It’d be easier: you could observe them, see if they’re regular soldiers, and not those warrior-monks. And it’d be easier to flee, too, if something goes wrong.”

“I suppose.” The Demon tilted his head. “It would be hard to predict which farms or which villages the Hexacracy plans to raid, though. Maybe the Elves could help…” This last sentence was left hanging, as a light shone in his eyes. “Hey, what if… Yes, that could solve both problems.”

“What’s that, buddy?”

“I could use one of those raiding bands to enter a camp unnoticed!”

“Explain.” Jackson shuffled on his seat.

Sathariel told him his new idea, and Jackson, in spite of his earlier reservations, agreed it was a good one. The two discussed it further through the afternoon, and soon the idea became the rough outline of a plan, then an actual plan. Even Byron, who had joined in on the conversation, had to agree it could work -although he wasn’t optimistic about it.

The two friends separated; Sathariel went to make the necessary preparations, while Jackson decided to go to tend to the horses to pass the time until the evening. As usual, Princess trotted to him as soon as he reached the corral. The demanding rouncey had taken a liking to being brushed, especially by Jackson. Several of the horses were gone; some were used for trading with the Elves, and some -the bigger and the sturdier- had been borrowed by Hellhounds who wished to practice their riding. They had gotten this notion from Jackson, in fact, who had mentioned to them the importance of cavalry and mounted infantry in battle -another lesson he had learned from Byron. He had given them a few quick lessons, but warned them that their size and weight would probably make it difficult for them. Still, they wanted to keep on trying.

Princess snorted aggressively as Jackson groomed him, apparently unsatisfied by the treatment. He wanted more -he always wanted more. At the same time, he moved his long head closer to Jackson, offering the brush his favorite spots.

“Yeah, I love you too, asshole,” Jackson said.

Tending to the horses achieved the desired effect: it dwindled Jackson’s worries. Ever since the war had come to the Marches, and especially after the Hellhounds had taken a part in it, anxiety had taken its quarters in Jackson’s mind. It was never very strong, never overpowering; in fact there were some blessed times when he could forget it almost entirely. But it was always there. It would sometimes rear its ugly head, for instance when Jackson learned of a fallen comrade, killed during one of their raids, or when he heard of another Hexacrat victory. He had asked Byron if he had ever felt something similar back in his military days. The veteran had simply answered: 

“Why do you think I was a smoker?”

Now, with this new idea of Sathariel, Jackson had another reason to worry. It could be that he would need another way to evacuate the stress, then.

There were of course no cigarettes in this world, or at least in Varda -although there were pipes-, and anyway the very smell of nicotine disgusted Jackson. There was alcohol, though, but Jackson had made a point not to drink outside of celebrations. Not only were their supplies limited, he wanted to keep a clear mind as much as possible. He was after all the Neha tribe’s almost official strategist. In addition, he had a nagging feeling that his worries would only get worse, meaning that if he made a habit of chasing them with booze, it wouldn’t be long before he turned into a full-blown alcoholic.

No, doing chores would have to do. Jackson might never have been a fan of hard work, but even he had to admit it could keep the mind busy like nothing else. He vaguely thought of another thing that could keep the mind -and the body- busy, another thing that might involve another person, but… He shook his head and refocused on the horses.

He was nearly done with the horses when the would-be riders came back. The group of six Hellhounds was in very good spirits, in spite of the fact that two of them had several visible bruises on their arms and their faces. Those two were roundly laughed at by the others, who kept making jokes about their apparently less-than-stellar performance. It was all in good fun, though, and the two joined in on the laughter.

“I hope the horses are okay,” Jackson said to them.

He didn’t bother inquiring about their riders; he knew by now just how much it took to hurt a Hellhound.

“A bit spooked,” one of the riders said. “Lasha tried to push his too far, and Tiana just didn’t want to lose.”

Lasha shrugged guiltily, while Tiana looked both proud and embarrassed.

“Lose?” Jackson lowered an eyebrow. “Did you have a race?”

“We did,” another said. 

Jackson recognized her as Ridala, considered by almost all of the tribe to be the most prolific huntress. Almost all. The one holdout just so happened to be Tiana.

“Ah, don’t worry,” Ridala said to Tiana, slapping her shoulder. “I won’t ask you to do anything too humiliating. I’ll just have you accompany me on my hunts, carry my kills and skin them. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two!”

Tiana punched her in the ribs, making her laugh harder.

“Don’t you already have someone to accompany you on your hunts?” Jackson asked. “That gal from the Teelo tribe.”

“Yes, Rilno. She’s not going to be able to come with me for some time. She stays most of her time in her hut these days.”

“Oh. Did she catch something?”

From what Jackson had been told, Hellhounds were virtually never sick. Still, weirder things had happened.

“Aye, she did,” another Hellhound said. It was Grabs-the-Blades. Unlike the other members of the tribe, she had never told Jackson her real name after he became a member, so he continued to call her by her nom de guerre. “She caught her Human.”

The others smirked or laughed.

“She’s sure she’s pregnant?” Tiana inquired.

Ridala snorted, then mimicked a round belly. “Aye, quite sure.”

This conversation piqued Jackson’s interest. So Hellhounds are compatible with Humans. He had been wondering about that for some time. While welcomed, that little discovery had the unfortunate side effect of bringing back up something he was trying to keep down. And, as if to make it even harder, while he was helping the little group bring the horses back in the corral, Grabs-the-Blades told him:

“Alizana wants to talk to you. Met her on the way. She’s in her tent.”

“What does she want to talk about?”

Grabs-the-Blades just shrugged and walked away.

“Right. Thanks.”

He left the corral and went back to camp. Jackson had not talked with Alizana since the feast some time ago. Since their moment. She had seen her, of course, on occasion, during the meals and around camp, but they had not found time yet to exchange more than a few words. Simply put, they had both been too busy. Jackson -or rather Byron- was busy with the war plans, and Alizana had many responsibilities as chieftain of her tribe and leader of the Rebellion -chieftain of chieftains, as was her official title.

Understandable, but still frustrating to Jackson, who very much wanted to resume their earlier conversation, and hopefully take it to its conclusion. Whatever said conclusion might be; Jackson had done quite a lot of speculation about that -especially at night-, and had come to a few different hypotheses. Some were happy, some seemed like wishful thinking, some were uncomfortable, and then some were just plain depressing. But it didn’t matter. Jackson -perhaps for the first time in his life- didn’t want to leave something half-done.

As he entered Alizana’s tent, Jackson found her, as often, not fully dressed. Indoors nudity seemed to be a habit for the Hellhounds. It had to do, he had figured, with their conception of intimacy. A tent was a home, and immodesty and even nudity at home was commonly accepted. Even for guests: anyone invited in a Hellhound’s home was allowed -sometimes expected- to disregard their clothing. This was one of the customs Jackson had not made his as of yet. It wasn’t quite out of shame -he liked to think he had nothing to be ashamed of-, but years of conservative education had left a mark that didn’t fade easily.

The Hellhound chieftain was laying on her back on one of her pelts, her furred and impressively muscled arms crossed under her head. Her legs were crossed, the one on top bouncing. The impassive mask of her face betrayed some tension, visible notably in her jawline, and in the way she pursed her lips. Though Jackson was out of her eyesight when he entered the tent, her nostrils flared and her ears perked up, reacting to his presence.

“Hey, Liz,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”

She rubbed her chin, then sat up. A few weeks ago, Jackson might have averted his gaze and pretended not to notice the way her chest moved as she adjusted her torso’s position.

“Hello, Jack,” she said. “Yes, I did.”

He sat down at his invitation. Alizana cleared her throat and bit her lip, but said nothing else for a while, her eyes staring off at some imaginary point on the wall. Chuckling, Jackson said:

“So, you just wanted to see me, then?…”

“No, no, sorry.”

“Too bad,” he muttered, only realizing a second too late that he had said that out loud. “Something on your mind? You look a little tense.”

“I am,” she sighed. “We might have a problem. If not now, then probably soon.”

“What kind of problem?”

She crossed her legs, knees out, and rested her paws on the inside of her thighs. Jackson leaned on his side, his elbow planted on the furred pelt he was sitting on.

“You know I have been working to gather the tribes,” she said. “Our numbers have nearly doubled in the last month, and there are still others coming..”

“Yeah, it was pretty fun to meet all these new faces. So what’s the problem? Are we running out of room?”

“No, far from it. My concern is the food.”

“Ah…” Jackson scratched his chin. “Yeah, I guess a lot of you could make a dent in the local fauna.”

“That’s precisely what worries me. My hunters and that of other tribes have reported that, at this rate, the game will not be able to replenish its numbers by next year.”

“Damn. Guess we’ll have to enforce quotas or something. In the meantime, maybe we can trade more food with the Elves.”

“I thought of that as well, but there’s only so much food they can trade. We will need a lot of it. In fact, we will need a steady source of it.”

Jackson tutted. “Right. Okay. So… What are our options?”

“Some chieftains have suggested…” Alizana’s lips twitched. “They suggested that we simply take that food.”

“Take it…” he said with a frown.

“From the peasants in the Southern Marches. Their fields, their livestock… Maybe even their seeds.”

“Oh, so they mean looting them,” Jackson said, his voice shaking with anger. “That’s bullshit. Do they realize we’re basically guests in this region? If we start pissing off the locals, we can kiss our plans to stay here long-term goodbye.”

“I told them that. They said that, without food, long-term is not an option anyway.”

Something looking uncomfortably like concern marred Alizana’s traits. She began scratching her claws with her other claws. Jackson noticed she often did that when she was nervous. Though the sharp scritch-scritch noise was a little annoying, Jackson found that gesture humanized her somewhat -in a manner of speaking. The usually confident, stone-faced and somewhat aloof chieftain scratched her claws, much like an ordinary person would bite their nails or suck on their teeth. He leaned towards her and placed his hand on her knee.

“Are you worried they’re gonna do it even if you say no?” he asked. She didn’t say anything, but her expression was answer enough. “Come on, you’re their chieftain.”

“I’m only their chieftain because they say so,” she replied. 

This was true. Jackson had learned that, among Hellhound tribes, the chieftain was selected by a vote; a surprisingly democratic process for this medieval world in which heredity, might, or money seemed to be the only roads to power. This method had apparently been chosen because it was the simplest to establish, especially in the chaos of the early days of the Hellhound Rebellion. Some had suggested some kind of meritocracy in which the best warriors and hunters would be put in charge, but it was objected that such a system would look too closely like the Hexacracy’s; that thought alone had been enough to kill the idea. As to Alizana, the chieftain of chieftains, she had been in turn elected by the other tribe chieftains.

“You saved your people after the Dusk Steppe,” he insisted. “They respect you. They know better than to go against your orders.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But hunger can lead to stupid decisions. Or, for Hellhounds, even just the perspective of hunger.”

“Someone said there are only nine meals between mankind and anarchy,” Byron said, appearing in a seated position against one of the tent’s walls. “Given how much Hellhounds eat, they may only have two meals.”

“They’d go so low as stealing from peasants?” Jackson said. “Preying on the weak, looting them and leaving them with nothing? This is exactly what the Hexacracy would do. This…”

The proverbial lightbulb went off in his mind, and his eyebrows shot up.

“This is exactly what the Hexacracy will do,” he said, his voice lower. “That’s it.”

Alizana looked into his eyes. “Did you just have an idea?”

“I sure did,” Jackson said proudly. Shooting Byron a glance, he added: “And I got this one all by myself.”

“What?” Alizana said.

“Uh, I’ll explain that one later.”

Alizana lent him an ear as he told her his idea, and Sathariel’s. Byron listened in too. He was noticeably more concerned than the previous time; apparently, he trusted Jackson’s ideas less than Sathariel’s. Though a little offended, Jackson didn’t blame him. His judgment had, more than once, put them both in jeopardy in the past. Byron was less convinced this time around, too.

“This might just work,” Alizana slowly said when Jackson was finished.

“Possibly,” Byron said. “It’s a short-term solution, at least.”

“Do you think it’s feasible?” Jackson asked Alizana. “I mean, from your end.”

“Yes, I believe we can do it. What about Seth?”

Hey, the nickname is catching on, he thought with a smile.

“I… I think he can make it. He says it’s not new territory for him, and we agreed to get him started on something simpler to ease him into this.”

“Then I say we must give it a try,” Alizana said. Jackson warmed up as he heard the confidence in her voice again. There was some new energy in her moves as she stood up. Her eyes, which light was dimmed a moment ago, were burning again. “When do you think you and Seth will be ready?”

“Two days tops, he said.”

“Two days it is. I’ll talk to my hunters.”

The next forty-eight hours went by, once again, both too quickly and too slowly at the same time, as Jackson was both dying and anxious to put the plan into execution. It could work, he told himself many times, it could really work. It could go badly, a voice in his head responded often, it could go really badly.

The preparations went smoothly. So smoothly it made Jackson uneasy. He couldn’t explain it, nor could he explain why he felt more uneasy the smoother things went. For instance, when the Elves furnished the intel on several locations that fit his requirements, and Jackson decided those locations could work, his stomach got agitated instead of calming down. When the hunters -who were more raiders at this point- received his instructions and confidently claimed that they could do it, his heart started beating faster. And when Sathariel put the final touches to their plan, Jackson could actually hear his own pulse.

It was as if the better things went, the more he was worried they would take a sudden and violent turn for the worse. He knew that was irrational, and yet he was still anxious.

He woke up two days later, right at dawn, to crisp air and the distant song of birds. His usual morning hunger was replaced by a cramp in his stomach; he tried to eat his breakfast -the one meal he could never skip-, but could barely swallow a few bites. Thankfully, he still managed to go through his morning exercise routine.

The forest was still barely awake when he, Alizana, and Sathariel got on their horses and rode south-southeast. Bonnie met with them on the way; she was wearing regular clothes that day, instead of her hunting outfit. Their destination was a village called Tinaun. Jackson and Sathariel had chosen it for several reasons. First of all, it was the largest settlement in the march, counting over six hundred inhabitants before the war. Ever since the invasion, a couple hundred refugees had arrived there, owing to its fortifications. Second of all, it was one of the few places in the Southern Marches to not be ruled by a marquess or any kind of noble, its last marquess having died without issue a few months ago; the de facto ruler was now the village mayor, a woman named Basila. Third of all, the village was surrounded by large, fertile lands which had not been touched by the Hexacrat armies. 

Not yet.

And that was the fourth reason: the Elves had reported that two raiding bands had recently been sent to loot Tinaun’s fields, and, should they manage to breach the fortifications, its granaries. The raiding bands numbered around fifty soldiers each; they would approach the village by the northwest and the southwest. Judging by their size and their speed, the Elves estimated that they would arrive in the afternoon of that day. Just enough time, Jackson thought -or hoped.

For the first step of their plan, Jackson, Alizana, Sathariel and Bonnie tried to meet with Basila. This proved much easier than Jackson feared, as the mayor was not the sort to hide behind bureaucracy or a wall of guards. Rather, they found her in a barn, busy with arbitrating a vehement dispute between two farmers, concerning the property of a particularly bountiful milking cow. In fact, Basila seemed to welcome the interruption, and asked the two feuding farmers to meet with her in the townhall at a later date.

Basila was possibly the smallest woman Jackson had ever seen, reaching maybe four feet three inches -and that was with her boots on. She was thickly built, with large shoulders, a noticeable belly, and a strong jaw. From her wrinkles, her graying hair, and her receding forehead, he estimated she must have been in her late fifties or her early sixties. When she saluted him and his friends, Jackson noticed several calluses on the palm of her hand. Basila gauged each of them before engaging in conversation, shooting Jackson and Sathariel a quick glance, but staring just a bit longer at Bonnie, and especially at Alizana.

“What can I do for you, foreigners?” she said. Her southern accent was as thick as her silhouette, changing the “oo” sounds into “a”s, and almost silencing the “a”s. “You look like you’ve come from far away, but I doubt you’re here for the pilgrimage.”

“The pilgrimage?” Sathariel said.

“Aye, the sacred groves and the ancestral tombs. I take it you don’t know of them. What brings you to Tinaun, then?”

“My name is Sathariel,” the young Demon said. “This is Mad Jack and Alizana. We have come to make you an offer that we believe will benefit the both of us.”

Jackson glanced at his friend. Mad Jack. He had instructed Sathariel to avoid using his real name, just in case. So Sathariel had come up with a nickname for him. Jackson had quickly decided it was miles better than Greenleaf.

Basila ticked. “The last time I heard something along those lines, the lads turned out to be bandits, offering to trade our lives for our food.”

“Oh, no, no,” he said, raising his hands. “We’re not here to rob you or harm you in any way. The opposite, actually: we’re here to protect you from an attack.”

“An attack?” the mayor repeated, her eyes growing wide.

“Our scouts have reported two Hexacrat raiding bands heading to your village,” Bonnie said. “They’ll be here by tomorrow morning, some time after dawn.”

Basila muttered some bemused comment under her breath. “You are one of the Vertrisian Elves.”

“That I am.”

“Since when do you Elves care what happens outside your woods?”

“Since the Hexacracy marched south,” Bonnie replied.

“We are all concerned by this war,” Sathariel said. “Humans, Elves, cities, villages, marquesses, commoners… The Hexacracy will not spare anyone. Unless they bend the knee, and even then…”

“So what do you offer?” Basila said.

“To unite our efforts,” Jackson said. “Like my friend said, the Hexacracy is coming for all of us. Our only hope is to form a united front, with as many as possible.”

“You’d want us to wage war? We are but simple farmers. War is not our business. Most of us have never wielded anything other than a hoe or a shovel.”

“What about your guards?” Alizana inquired.

“They mostly left after the marquess died and we no longer had the coin to keep them. We lived from trading our crops, but the invasion has put paid to trade; every merchant that leaves our walls is at risk, even if they stay on the roads.”

“So you are defenseless, then?”

“Our wall is enough of a deterrent against the bandits. Against the Hexacracy, though…” She grumbled. “Is what you’re saying true? Will Tinaun be attacked?”

“It’s true,” Jackson said. “But we can help you with that. We know how many they are, and where they are planning to attack you.”

“You can help us with that,” the mayor repeated. “But you want something in exchange. Let me guess: you wish to levy a protection tax or some sort.”

“Not quite,” Sathariel said. “All we want from you, for now, is for you to follow us and observe.”

“Observe? Observe what?”

“We don’t expect you to just take our word for it that you’re gonna get attacked,” Jackson said, “and that we can take care of it. We’d like to offer you the opportunity to come see that for yourself.”

Basila crossed her arms and leaned back slightly. “How do I know this isn’t a ruse? To kidnap me, take me as hostage?”

“Because I’m going to stay here as a ward,” Alizana replied. “I’ll be in the custody of your people, as insurance that nothing will happen to you.”

The mayor studied him, then his friends, her foot tapping as she mentally processed the offer. Then, she called out to a woman passing by, and asked her to bring someone called Narry. Narry was a man, visibly a relative of Basila; he was almost as short as her, and had the same hair color and the same shape of the jaw. She gave him a few instructions in a low, curt voice, then Narry, with a perplexed expression, invited Alizana to follow him.

“Very well,” Basila said. “I’ll follow you. Do you have a plan to deal with our attackers?”

“We do,” Jackson said. “Have you got a horse?”

As it turned out, she didn’t. Alizana’s horse fitted her fine, although he was so tall she needed a boost in order to saddle up. Jackson, Sathariel, and Bonnie led her to a small forest by the side of a road leading to Tinaun. They hid in a small depression surrounded by several small trees.

“Our people will ambush them here,” Jackson said, pointing at a point where the road turned into a slope.

“What people?” Basila said, craning her neck.

“You’ll see.”

Contrary to the caravans the Rebellion had ambushed so far, the raiding band was mostly made out of footmen, wearing the pale blue of Rakshasa’s armies. Many of them wore heavier suits of armor, with chainmail and hauberks instead of hide armors, and iron helmets instead of leather caps. Two of the horsemen even wore full plate armors, complete with gauntlets and gorgets; their horses, too, wore pieces of armor. Those horsemen must have been very uncomfortable in this weather: the sun was hidden behind clouds, but the temperature was still reaching just about three digits.

Jackson did his best to look impassive in spite of his nervosity, which reached new levels as he got a closer look at the enemy. Those soldiers seemed to be better armed in addition to their armors, and quite a few looked to have some experience of battle, judging by their scars and the wear and tear of their equipment. It would be fine, he told himself for just about the thousandth time. This was no different from their previous ambushes. Sure, the enemy numbered twice more than before, but so did the Hellhounds. And yes, their armor was thicker, but-

But that made no difference to the Hellhounds, as Jackson -and Basila- witnessed when their first group jumped out hiding and threw themselves into the raiding band’s rear like a powerful wave crashing on a boat. Basila gasped loudly, her whole body tensing up. She grabbed on tightly to the edge of the depression, as if to stop herself from fleeing.

The ambushes had always been chaotic to the point where Jackson had the greatest difficulty comprehending what was happening when he took part in them. Now that he was just an outside observer, he could more easily make sense of them. It also helped that the Hellhounds had adopted a bit of discipline through training and experience. Jackson could see the surprise and the fear among the men in the rear, as well as the confusion of those in the front as they understood but a few instants later that they were under attack. But even so, he had trouble following the course of the engagement, as things quickly turned into a pandemonium of blood, screams, and steel.

Right as the men in the front turned around to assist their comrade-at-arms in the rear, the second group of Hellhounds came out of the woods, and crashed into the raiding band’s left side. Quite a few of them threw spears or used slings at the Hexacrat soldiers before engaging them in hand-to-hand combat. This new tactic derived from the use of such slings by the hunters of several newly-arrived tribes. It had been encouraged by Byron, who believed this would give them an edge in battle. Most Hellhounds didn’t throw them with much accuracy, due to a lack of training, but given how tightly-packed their enemies were, it didn’t matter. The spears used were some of the weapons looted by the Hellhounds in the Hexacrat caravans; in a twist of fate they would probably find cruel, it was now used against the Hexacracy’s own soldiers.

In addition to the new weapons, the Hellhounds also used new armor. To their usual clothing made out of animal hide, they had added boiled leather, the crafting of which had been taught to them by Human and Demon refugees they had adopted in their tribes. Protection was not the only point of these new pieces: they also meant to obfuscate their identity. They covered most of the Hellhounds’ bodies, and were supplemented by cowls hiding their faces. Some even wore red scarfs. The idea was that any escapers wouldn’t be able to testify to the true nature of their attackers.

And there would be escapers. That was part three of the plan -part two being the attack itself, naturally. In fact, minutes after the skirmish had begun, and as its conclusion already seemed clear to quite a few Hexacrat soldiers, five or six of them ran into the forest, some dropping their weapons. The rest stood their ground, mostly under the influence of the two officers -the horsemen-, who, screaming louder than the pandemonium, ordered them to keep fighting, and warned against the very notion of deserting.

To punctuate that warning, one soldier was killed by an officer as he turned tail and tried to flee. The officer had raised his hand, from the palm of which some sort of pale yellow bolt had sprung, striking the unfortunate soldier in the back of the head in a fiery explosion. This little demonstration, as well as the bloodied remains of the deserter’s head, convinced the rest of the soldiers to choose fight over flight.

“A battlemage,” Sathariel whispered to Jackson, making sure Basila couldn’t hear him. “They sent a battlemage to loot a village!”

Jackson wasn’t sure what a battlemage was, but he could take a guess. This could be bad.

“Do our folks have protection against magic?” he asked his friend.

“Some. A few chieftains have also been trading wards with the Elves, but…”

“The only chieftain here is Alizana, and she’s not part of the fight.”

“Right.”

Jackson cracked his neck. “Okay, then. Plan B.”

The young man pulled out his assault rifle from his backpack -in which it just about fit- as discreetly as he could, then climbed out of the depression. He nodded to Sathariel, who nodded back.

“What is he doing?” Basila whispered, barely audible.

“We have some magic of our own,” Sathariel explained. “You may want to avert your eyes.”

Thankfully, Basila elected to do just that, hiding her eyes behind her forearm, and turning away.

Breathing calmly, Jackson took aim at the officer. He hadn’t practiced with his rifle in a while, between the scarcity of ammunition and the fact that he wasn’t supposed to have such a weapon in this world. But it was just like riding a bike. So he told himself, at least. Wasn’t it?

Dammit, this wasn’t the time for hesitation! But it wasn’t the time to miss a shot, either. What if it alerted the officer of his presence? No, he couldn’t fail. And he couldn’t hesitate. Hell, and the officer was moving a lot, too. His horse allowed him greater range on the field, in spite of the confusion and the fact that they were now almost completely surrounded. All Jackson had shot so far with an assault rifle were targets, and they barely moved at all. Could he pull this shot? He wasn’t sure. But, he thought, someone almost certainly could…

“Take over,” he thought-said to Byron.

The veteran barely hesitated before they switched. It had been a while since they had done that, but both had agreed to be ready to do it at a minute’s notice. In times of war, having a veteran on the soul equivalent of speed-dial was potentially life-saving.

Byron took less than a second to aim, then pressed the trigger twice. Both bullets connected, the first hitting the officer’s upper-right torso, the second one piercing his jaw. The man seized as if electrocuted, and his sword dropped from his hand. He leaned to his right, then dropped heavily to the ground.

The death of the battlemage sent a progressive shockwave through the Hexacrat troops as they slowly realized their highest-ranking officer had died. Not one seemed to have noticed Jackson-Byron, who quickly hid and put the rifle away. The shockwave noticeably hindered the enemy’s ability and will to fight. The engagement was already going badly for them, and it only got worse from there. It wasn’t long after that that one of the Hellhounds grabbed the remaining officer and took him down.

If the first fallen officer -seized by an unseen enemy, at that- hurt the Hexacrats’ morale, seeing the second drop off his horse sapped it completely. Two dozens soldiers quickly broke rank and ran away. Some proved more temeritous and kept on fighting, even as half of their numbers were gone or dead. Most of those holdouts soon joined the deceased. Less than fifteen minutes after the second officer had been killed, only two soldiers remained. The survivors were not as brave, or possibly not as stupid, as they dropped their weapons and gestured their surrender.

Jackson came out of hiding, soon followed by Bonnie, Sathariel, and Basila. The latter had turned very pale, with hints of green on her cheekbones; she wisely chose to keep her distance.

“That was…” She took a deep breath. “That was impressive.”

“We aim to please,” Jackson said.

“What of the other band?”

“It’ll be taken care of,” Sathariel said.

The mayor did not question this matter further; the scene she had just witnessed was clearly demonstration enough.

“You have made your point,” she said. “Let us go back to discuss our future collaboration.”

“We’ll join you there soon,” Jackson said. “Bonnie, can you get her back, please?”

The Elf nodded, and the two women left. Jackson breathed in relief, then joined the Hellhounds as they sorted out the battlefield. 

The second phase of the plan had gone well. The first raiding band had been crushed, and quickly enough that they had time to enact phase three. The Hellhounds had suffered casualties, however. Two of them had died, and eleven had been wounded. And while most of the latter would eventually recover, one of them had received a leg injury severe enough as to be crippling.

Jackson whispered a prayer for the lost, then went on to handle the Hexacrat soldiers who had surrendered. He looked around for them. One of them was being restrained with ropes, while the other was being held to the ground by an infuriated Hellhound. The latter was wrapping her paws around his neck, shouting and swearing at him. The captive was struggling under her, gasping for breath, all color leaving his face. He was a Demon; by his armor, Jackson recognized him as the second officer. He had lost his helmet, either in his fall or forcefully removed.

“Hey!” Jackson screamed out.

He rushed to her and tried to push her off, but the full strength of his upper body didn’t so much as budge her. It was like body-slamming a tree. He grabbed her paws and tried to remove them, also to no avail.

“Get off him! Stop it!”

“He killed Mocks-the-Arrows,” the Hellhound shouted.

“He surrendered!”

“He killed her!” she repeated. “He fucking killed her!”

Jackson called out three other Hellhounds nearby to help him. One of them just shrugged, but the other two agreed to assist him. The strangler was removed, though not without great pains -to the prisoner, mostly. Jackson gave the man a hand to help him get up. After ensuring that he would be okay, he turned to his attacker.

“I get that you’re mad,” he told her, “but killing him won’t bring your friend back.”

“Maybe not,” she said, almost spitting in anger. “But one Hexacrat less on this land is always a good thing.”

“The prisoners live. That’s an order.”

“An order?!” she yelled, the anger in her eyes burning with more intensity. “You are not in position to give orders!”

“Yes I fucking am!” Jackson yelled back at her, indifferent to the fact that she was towering over him. “Alizana, our chieftain, made me the leader of this whole operation. That means I get to give orders, and you had better fucking follow them!”

She snarled, but found nothing to say back to that. Instead, she shook off the two women holding her, and stomped off. Jackson wiped his brow, a bit stunned. Not by the Hellhound’s violent reaction, but by his. For a second there, it was like he had been channeling his old drill sergeant. He didn’t think he had it in him to scream at someone like that. Guess I learned even more in the army than I thought. 

One of the Hellhounds asked: 

“So what do we do with them?”

The young man sucked on his teeth. In truth, he had no idea what to make of the prisoners. A part of him wanted to just let them go. Looking at the officer, he couldn’t help but pity him. His entire body was shaking, and he was constantly looking around him, dread filling his bloodshot eyes. A large hematoma was forming on the right side of his face. There would probably be another one around his neck soon. For all Jackson knew, that officer might have just been some draftee who found himself here by no ill will of his own, same as Sathariel, same as lots of soldiers in the Archdemons’ armies -some of whom were quite possibly among the dead of today. Sure, that officer had killed a Hellhound, one of Jackson’s people, but such was war; Jackson’s own hands were not clean either.

However, Jackson strongly doubted that decision would have been accepted. So, since neither death nor freedom were an option, that left taking him as a prisoner -him and the other survivor. But that raised other issues. For starters, none of the Hellhounds’ camps had any sort of detaining facilities whatsoever; their tents didn’t even have doors. For another thing, that meant more mouths to feed, and food was already an issue -although one that hopefully would be alleviated soon.

Byron offered a suggestion:

“From what I saw, Tinaun has some kind of jail, although it’s likely not meant for long-term detention. We can keep them prisoners here until we figure out what to do with them -ransom them, ideally.”

“You think Basila will be okay with that? And you think the Hexacracy will pay to get some grunts back?”

“To the first, most likely yes, because it means cheap labor right in the middle of harvest season. To the second, maybe. Ransoming nobles, knights, and officers was common in medieval wars. But that one could be too low ranked for the Archdemons to bother.”

So for him, that means imprisonment and forced labor for the foreseeable future, Jackson thought. Far from ideal, but better than being strangled to death, I suppose. Sighing to himself, he asked for two volunteers to help him escort the captive to Tinaun. He’d do the explaining to Basila. And with that dealt with, it was time to get started on the third and final phase of the plan. He and Sathariel got back on their horses and headed north.

Just as the scouts had reported, the second raiding band was bigger than the first, with about sixty men, including eight horsemen instead of two. According to Byron, they seemed more experienced than the men of the first raiding band. Thankfully, there would be no fight there. At least, not if phase three went as planned.

“You ready?” Jackson asked Sathariel. The both of them were once again hidden in the forest by the road.

The young Demon nodded sharply, then rode to meet the Hexacrat soldiers. Jackson’s stomach ache intensified as he saw the soldiers react to the newcomer by clutching their weapons. Thankfully, as he got closer, one of the officers recognized the colors on his armor, and appeared to relax. Sathariel greeted the men by raising his hand. After a few seconds, one of the horsemen left the group to come meet him. Jackson was standing about twenty feet away from the two of them, his rifle at the ready in case something went wrong.

The Hexacrat officer called out to Sathariel, who responded in a polite tone. Unfortunately, their conversation was entirely in Hellian. Of this language, Jackson only knew a few conversational basics, taught to him by Sathariel. However, he knew what Sathariel was planning on saying, and could read the officer’s body language. Said officer was evidently inquiring as to Sathariel’s identity and his presence there. The young Demon claimed to be a sergeant serving in Namtar’s army. He told him he was part of a cohort sent by Namtar to scout the surroundings of Tinaun. However, their group had been attacked by an unknown force of strange, hooded warriors.

That last part surprised the officer, but there was also some skepticism in his eyes. The plan had accounted for that. Sathariel hadn’t expected such a story to be believed without proof. Said proof would come, however, from the earlier escapers, and their testimony. In the meantime, Sathariel managed to convince the others that he was who he said he was, and that it would be better to forget Tinaun for now.

Jackson’s stomach finally relaxed when the Hexacrat soldiers turned around and went back to their camp, with Sathariel accompanying them. He exhaled loudly as he put the safety back on his gun. Of course, that didn’t mean everything was good. His Demon friend was going to find himself among hundreds of armed soldiers, playing a role and spying on them. Things could still take a turn for the worse. And if they did, Jackson would not be able to come to his rescue. But Sathariel was confident he could pull it off, and Jackson had decided to trust him.

He went back to Tinaun, his mind somewhat at ease for the first time in a while.

 

End of Part 2

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