The Pulver Chronicles – 26. Resist And Bite

It took Byron the rest of the day and a portion of the night to come up with a tactic. Jackson had decided to put off going to sleep, even though he knew Byron didn’t need him to be awake in order to function. He desperately wanted confirmation that saving Atvello was doable, and knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep well without it.

Byron, as for him, seemed truly immune to tiredness. He remained at the table, almost completely immobile, his face empty of emotion, his attention unwavering. Jackson had offered to help, but Byron had declined with a shake of his head. It was just as well, as Jackson knew little of tactics -and what little he knew, he learned from Byron when he had planned the previous raids.

It was dark and cold out when Byron, still reading the map and the intel with the help of two lanterns, finally raised his head. His expression was still difficult to read, but Jackson thought he discerned both apprehension and confidence in it.

“This will do, I think,” he said, his voice gravelly.

“Great, show me,” Jackson said. He then proceeded to yawn hard enough to strain his jaw, and added: “Tomorrow. Show me tomorrow.”

And thus it waited until tomorrow. To be more accurate, it waited until tomorrow, after Jackson had breakfast, rushed through his morning chores, and went to get Alizana. The latter was so that Byron wouldn’t have to explain himself twice.

The three-way conversation proved difficult, and at times confusing. Everything Byron said had to be relayed to Alizana via Jackson, of course, and a few times, Byron would use terms Jackson misunderstood and misused. Eventually, Jackson resorted to just letting Byron take control of his body, so that Alizana could hear the explanations straight from the horse’s mouth. More than a little weirded out by this change at first, the Hellhound chieftain listened along, gnawing on one of her claws, only occasionally interrupting with a question.

“This is… risky,” she simply commented when Byron was finished.

“Yes, it is,” Byron said.

“We have never done anything like this. At least, not on our own. We have been led into battle by Hexacrat officers in the past, but other than that our only experience with battles is…” She bit her lower lip, her clawed thumb scratching her chin.

“The Dusk Steppe,” Byron finished for her. “I know. It won’t be easy, for several reasons, that’s why I had to make the plan as straightforward as possible.”

“This is straightforward?” Jackson said, looking down at the plans the veteran had drawn.

“If you agree to do this,” Byron continued, “we have to start with the preparations immediately. There’s a lot to do, and we don’t have much time.”

Alizana ran a clawed finger over the map. “I suppose this is as good a plan as we can expect?”

“Given the circumstances, yes.”

“We could lose a lot of people.”

“Yes, we could,” Byron said with his trademark directness.

“Can we guarantee the Elves’ support on this?”

“Some of them, at least. The threat on the heartlands and the Vertrisian Forest is very real. Bonnie can probably convince more tribes to join us.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Jackson quoted.

“My ally, actually,” Byron mentally replied.

“What’s the difference?”

Before Byron could explain, Alizana straightened her back, her eyes burning with dire resolve. She joined her paws behind her, and said:

“Very well, then. That’s what we will do. I’ll gather the chieftains.”

“And I’ll talk with Sathariel,” Jackson said. “Also with Bonnie. She’s supposed to drop by later.”

A feverish energy seemed to animate every tribe over the next few days. Jackson could hear it in the conversations, see it in the way his tribemates kept busy around the Neha camp, and feel it in the manner in which they exercised. Interestingly, if some appeared tense, most seemed to anticipate the incoming battle. Jackson knew Hellhounds generally loved to fight, having witnessed that passion first-hand, but he wasn’t sure whether the defeat at the Dusk Steppe hadn’t left some trauma in them that could affect morale in preparation of an actual battle. In fact, many of the Hellhounds who had found refuge in the Vertrisian Forest had not been at the Dusk Steppe ; those who had seemed to consider the future engagement of Avtello as an opportunity to avenge the fallen of that battle.

Those next few days were the busiest in Jackson’s entire life. He would wake up early -usually right before dawn-, eat a quick breakfast, then immediately get started on his work. The evenings were spent discussing strategy with Alizana and the tribe chieftains; Jackson left that part to Byron. Those conversations were typically tense, with lots of back-and-forth, and quite a few arguments.

The main issue, raised at their very first war council, was Byron’s attempt to instill some form of hierarchy among the Hellhound troops, notably by setting up some ranks. Several chieftains had issues with this idea.

“We’re not the Hexacracy,” one of the chieftains said. It was, once again, Culli, or Large-Nose as Jackson used to call her.

That particular sentence would often come up, usually to argue against one of Byron’s proposals: “We’re not the Hexacracy”. It was almost a running gag at this point. Had Jackson been in control of his body, he might have turned it into a drinking game.

“We have no superiors and no underlings,” Culli continued. “No slaves and no masters. Hellhounds are equals and shall remain so.”

“Aren’t you the chieftains of your tribes?” Byron retorted.

“Only because our tribe named us chieftains. Should we fail our duties to our tribe, we will lose our title to someone else.”

“Well, the same can be true of your officers. This is a military rank, not a title of nobility. Just… Have your warriors choose among themselves who they think is most worthy of leading them in battle.”

Jackson could tell this was a compromise Byron was not very comfortable with. He had initially wanted the officers to be named by either the chieftains themselves or the lead huntresses, who he felt would have been better suited to decide who has the proper skills for the rank. Voting for their officers, he feared, could lead to the most charismatic or the most popular warriors getting the job, instead of the most competent.

“We already have lead huntresses,” another chieftain said. Jackson recognized her as Aleo, chieftain of the Mieto tribe. “Won’t they do? They proved able during our raids.”

“They were just leading small bands, then. We’re talking about an actual army. I need people to be able to not only relay my orders in battle, but also maintain coordination and discipline in a larger group of warriors. Not just a dozen, but fifty or more. And then, I need people to organize these officers, to facilitate communication between them. Every army has a hierarchy, and with good reason: it makes them more efficient.”

“We understand the merits of what you offer, Mad Jack,” Aleo said. “Our worry is that it seems to go against our principles. By agreeing to this, we may change the way of life of our tribemates, possibly in a way we can’t foresee. As chieftains, it is our duty to think of the long-term consequences of our decisions.”

“I get that. But as I said, you can elect those officers the same way you do with your tribe chieftains. You don’t have to compromise on your principles. As to long-term consequences, think of what a defeat at Atvello would mean to the Southern Marches, and to your people. Think of what the Dusk Steppe meant.”

Those last words brought a heavy silence to the assembly, as Byron knew they would. Jackson felt a little uncomfortable at the manipulation, especially as he could tell Byron did not. It seemed that this was another thing the veteran was used to: using people’s feelings and past traumas to influence them. The chieftains exchanged glances. A darkness washed over Culli’s face.

“All right,” the latter said. “We’ll do it.”

“Good,” Byron said, his tone curt. “I’ll let you organize that, and get back to me with the names of your new officers.”

The war council was adjourned soon after. Jackson noticed that the Hellhounds seemed to be getting more comfortable with taking orders from a Human. That wasn’t to say there still weren’t some frictions, but the process was getting smoother. It probably helped that he wasn’t really their superior, merely the decision-maker in this particular context. They deferred to his experience, not to his birth, his race, or his title.

The mornings and afternoons were dedicated to training, not just for Jackson, but for all of the warriors. The Hellhounds certainly didn’t need any help as to their physical condition or their combat abilities, but they required additional training in order to adapt to the new tactics, and to their new officers. Said new officers also needed to fit in their new roles. That turned out to be difficult. While those officers -called Sharpfangs, and Longclaws for the superior officers- had not, as Byron feared, been elected for their popularity but more often than not for their fighting skills, being a good fighter was not the same as being a good leader. Quite a few were unaccustomed to giving orders, and at least a couple had trouble doling out punishments in case their orders were not followed. In fact, one of the Sharpfangs almost quit her position, feeling like she couldn’t measure up. Jackson managed to talk her out of it, Byron having reasoned that there wasn’t enough time left to train a replacement.

Time, indeed, was against them. But then again, when was it not? Ideally, Byron would have waited a few weeks, even a few months before deploying the newly-trained Hellhound army. But he only had a few days, and thus worked hard to make the most of them. So much so that Jackson often went to bed early, his muscles strained and cramped.

“You should take better care of your body,” Byron said one evening as Jackson dropped on his cot.

“How could I possibly take better care? I exercise every day!”

“Yes, and you bathe every month.”

Jackson smelled his armpits, and tacitly agreed… but decided he was too tired to stand up again.

Finally, one morning, Jackson woke up to Byron staring at him. He barely needed one look at his face and one glimpse of his thoughts to understand.

“Today’s the day,” Jackson said. Byron nodded. “Are we ready?”

The veteran chewed on his lip. “Let’s just say that the expression “you go to war with the army you’ve got” has rarely been meant so literally.”

“Come on! It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s not. We did our best. Those Hellhounds warriors are good, and I think they took to the training well. But…”

“But what?” Jackson said as he put on his vest and checked the contents of its pockets.

The veteran sighed. “This is the first time I’m doing this. All I know of medieval tactics is theoretical. Sure, I’ve created tactics, and led soldiers in engagements, but the context was very different.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jackson said with a confidence that was partly faked. “We’ve got a good strategy, an army of fearsome warriors, and the element of surprise. What more do we need, huh?”

“Time, soldiers, supplies…” Byron said.

“You really don’t like rhetorical questions, do you? Come on, let’s go.”

“Hold on.” The veteran raised a hand to stop him. “You’re not going to battle dressed like this.”

“Why not?” Jackson gestured to his dryadelle outfit. Months of wearing it had tarnished the colors somewhat, and there was some wear and tear, but Jackson thought it was still as dashing as the day he had bought it. “That outfit’s material is tough. It can stop a slashing blade, and probably an arrow too.”

“We have some suits of armor; wear one on top of that.”

“What?” The young man balked. He hated those things: they were bulky and heavy, and pretty ugly to boot. “Those things will slow me down. And why do I need two armors?”

“You’ll be riding Florid, that’ll make up for the loss of mobility. And you need two armors because you’re going to battle. To battle, Jack, not to a simple raid. Your dryadelle might stop an arrow, but this plus a chestplate definitely will. Oh, and you’ll put on a helmet, too.”

Jackson grumbled. Back in the US Army, the helmet was the part of the uniform he disliked the most. He especially hated the strap and how it felt on his chin. He also wasn’t a big fan of the numerous lectures he received on the importance of wearing a helmet in action, and on the terrible dangers of head wounds. Still, he went to the storage tent and, with Sathariel’s help, put on a suit of armor.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you there,” his Demon friend said.

“Don’t be. The battlefield’s not your scene. Believe me, I get that.”

Sathariel nodded absent-mindedly while tying the chestplate. He took a step back to get a good look at his work. Jackson grunted. The whole suit was very uncomfortable: the greaves were too big (it was either that or too small), the gauntlets squeezed his forearms tightly, and the chestplate pressed against his stomach every time he took a breath. As to the helmet, he would put it on at the last moment. The damned thing was an actual great helm, covering the entirety of the head, minus a small T-shaped slit for the eyes. It was also easily the ugliest piece of all. Made out of black iron with little design and no decorations, it looked like an upside down cauldron. Sure enough, Jackson was bound to get unfathomably hot wearing it.

It was still early in the morning when he joined his corps. Byron had divided the Hellhound army raised for the upcoming battle into four corps, simply named One, Two, Three, and Four; or rather, Neh, Lah, Hak, and Vak in the Hellhound vernacular of Hellian. The first three corps consisted almost entirely of Hellhound infantry, and some Elven archers, while the fourth, smaller than the others, was made out of cavalry and mounted infantry. The defectors who had volunteered to fight were all in that fourth corps, clad in Hexacrat armors. “You don’t think they’re gonna see it coming this time?” Jackson had asked.

“The fog of war can be very useful,” Byron had said. “And it’s the first and second corps’ role to make sure they’re too distracted to notice.”

Each corps consisted of between three and four hundred warriors -one hundred and fifty for the fourth-, for a total of just over eleven hundred people. Jackson hadn’t realized there were this many Hellhounds in the Southern Marches; and that wasn’t even all of them. The corps assembled in different locations several leagues away from each other, so as not to alert the Hexacrat army besieging Atvello too early. The enemy general was likely not expecting any incoming troops -as predicted, not a single marquess had raised any troops to aid in Atvello’s defense-, but would probably have the presence of mind to send one or two scouting parties around just in case.

The fourth corps finished assembling by noon, at a location south of Atvello and near the coast, but didn’t begin moving until sunset. This was meant to both leave enough time to the rest of the army to prepare, and to enjoy the cover of the night as they started their operations.

“How will we know the other corps will be following the plan?” Jackson asked as he waited, sitting at the bottom of a tree with his helmet between his legs. “Hell, how will we know if something goes wrong?”

“We won’t,” Byron answered. “That fog of war I mentioned goes both ways.”

“So we’ll just have to trust that everything will go swimmingly?”

“Basically, yes. We planned, we prepared, we trained. Now…”

“Now we just roll the dice,” Jackson said, nervously massaging his neck.

Byron had explained before how luck factored in every military engagement, big or small. Only now did Jackson truly understand what it meant. His thoughts went to Alizana, leading the first corps. Byron had strongly advised her not to participate in the battle, arguing that the loss of her life could prove devastating for the Rebellion, but Alizana wouldn’t hear of it.

“If I don’t lead my people,” she had said, “why should they follow?”

In response, the veteran had grumbled something ending in “unconscionable”, but Jackson could clearly tell he respected her more for this. Jackson himself was of two minds. While he certainly understood her wanting to be a part of this, like he did, the thought of her dying in battle that day now inhabited his mind and refused to leave.

The coming of the night was accompanied by a sharp drop of temperature. While Jackson knew this was normal as the end of summer neared, his subconscious still took it as a bad sign. Well, I’m sure I’ll be warm again soon enough, he thought as he put on his helmet. And not just because of this damn thing. It was, as predicted by the Elven druids, a cloudless night, illuminated by a nearly full moon.

The troop moved north right as the sun threw his last lights of the day. Jackson glanced around at the others. Most of the defectors he recognized from having trained them and with them over the last few days, but a couple he didn’t. He had previously asked Sathariel whether they could be trusted when it came to fighting their former comrades-at-arms. Sathariel had answered that “comrades-at-arms” was not the right term. There was no camaraderie between the defectors and the rest of the Hexacrat army: the former had been mostly conscripts, forced into service, and had been considered barely any better than slaves -and treated accordingly. Furthermore, Jackson had been reminded of the fate awaiting deserters and turncoats; even if those defectors switched sides again, they could not expect any clemency.

The troop was still a few miles away from Atvello when Jackson started hearing the sounds. Even distorted by the distance and the terrain, they were very recognizable. The clanging of weapons, the thunder of thousands of feet trampling the ground, and the screams of anger, fear, and agony of myriads of men.

The four Elven guides of the fourth corps led it to one of the highest hills. Most of the corps hid behind it and waited, while the leaders climbed on top. From there, they had an excellent view of Atvello and its surroundings. Jackson’s breath caught in his throat as he saw the city again. The attack had begun, and in fact been going for several hours. Several buildings had been destroyed, especially near the walls. One tower near the eastern gate had collapsed, and another had lost half of its top part. Even from afar, Jackson could see and hear that the normally busy streets had been completely emptied -unlike the walls, which he noticed were far more occupied than usual. He hoped the citizens had found refuge somewhere. The Seacrest Castle, entirely intact, seemed totally uninhabited. Jackson remembered Durnin claiming that the Prince Merchants would not abandon the city, and Otzando saying otherwise; he would soon find out which one spoke true. 

Some distance away from the walls, Jackson saw two camps. They were much less organized than the one Sathariel had infiltrated, each being little more than a score of tents surrounded by a small trench and a makeshift palisade. Temporary buildings, nothing more.

But what mostly caught his eye, of course, were the vast armies occupying the large plain around Atvello, a gigantic dark, shapeless mass, stretching over almost a mile. Even through his binoculars, Jackson had a hard time understanding what was going on. But that didn’t matter. It was time for Byron to take over.

***

His name was Nih Latka wa Ferei, but his men often called him the Marble General, owing to his ability to remain calm even in the most dire circumstances, with a face as stoic as if it was truly made out of polished marble. This mental fortitude that characterized him was a great gift for someone who served in the Namtar’s armies, and it had certainly been instrumental in earning him the rank of general. In fact, the Archmaster had stated it was the main reason why Latka was chosen to lead one of the armies in charge of taking Atvello.

His intuition told him, however, that by tomorrow, he would have a very different nickname. It might be something humorous as the Sweaty Man, or it might be something far less innocent like the General Who Turned Tail And Ran. Indeed, that reputation of his that he had carefully built over the years might well crumble before the end of this night.

And to think that, that very morning, he had woken up with confidence ready to resume the assault on Atvello’s walls. The city’s militia, reinforced by mercenaries and the remainder of the local Inquisition’s commandery, had managed to repel the Hexacrat assault the previous day. It had helped greatly that the defenders had had the presence of mind to get rid of most of the rocks and boulders around Atvello, meaning the Hexacrat ballistas and catapults had fewer projectiles to soften the city’s defenses. In addition, the resident magis had shown enough prowess to nullify their own magis’ offensive spells. After several hours of fruitless efforts, general Latka had ordered an end to the assault, deciding to try again the next day with renewed energy and more preparation. The task of taking Atvello might have been time-sensitive, but a single day was not going to doom them -especially if in trade it guaranteed an easier victory.

Latka knew that another general in his stead would have possibly continued the attack, sending more men to scale the ladders and take the walls. It might have worked, too, and the city might possibly have been taken right then, but with a considerable loss of men -and then, there would not have been enough manpower to hold the city. In fact, that was precisely the tactic advocated by Bevonn Dahrr, general of the second army tasked with taking Atvello.

Members of the Gold and Crimson Legions were often thought of as aggressive and unsubtle -not to mention quite proud-, favoring the direct approach to most issues, and believing strength to be the solution to most problems. This was mostly a stereotype, but general Dahrr fit it quite well. Dahrr having been placed under the temporary command of Archmaster Namtar, he and Latka were supposed to be equals in this battle, especially when it came to decision-making. When Latka had first suggested ceasing the attack and regrouping, Dahrr had reacted as if the graves of his ancestors going back four generations had been desecrated. He had then gone on rant on how a general doesn’t run away at the first difficulty. Thankfully, he was eventually made to see reason, though it had taken a long and agitated discussion. In addition, Latka had to make a concession: his own men would compose the bulk of the next day’s assault.

The beginning of the next day had mostly been a repeat of the first one. First, the ballistas had resumed fire with what few projectiles the scouts had been able to find and bring back. One of the engineers had managed an excellent shot which took out one of the towers and the scorpion it housed. This had bolstered the soldiers’ confidence, and it had been with a renewed energy that they resumed their assault of the walls and the eastern gate in the afternoon -invigorated by the mull wine that Latka had distributed to raise spirits.

The defenders had once again fought with stubborn resistance, in spite of their losses which at this point had to have numbered in the three digits. General Latka was quietly surprised to find out that the mercenaries employed by Atvello had not given up or tried to desert. Did they still believe they could win the day? Was bought loyalty really all that strong? Whatever the case, they fought with skill and determination, better even than the regular militiamen, who had little to no experience of battle. This comforted Latka that his decision to stop the offensive the previous day was the correct one.

Finally, as the sun was setting, the assailants had managed to take control of the gatehouse, and of the surviving tower next to it. The gate was breached soon after by the battering ram. Predictably, the defenders had built barricades on the other side. Latka felt confident nevertheless. Such a defense could only slow down the onslaught. With the gate destroyed and the walls about to be taken, the capture of the city was inevitable.

Or rather, it should have been.

And that had been the moment when general Latka’s day had ceased being predictable -and the situation, controllable. While he was observing the city walls, he heard behind him the blowing of a horn. It was blown three times in rapid succession; the code for an incoming attack. An attack! the general thought with stupefaction. But how? And by whom? Atvello had no reinforcements. The cities and marquesses in the Southern Marches that could possibly send an army to help relieve the siege had decided not to do so, preferring to protect themselves rather than risk any manpower in the defense of a foreign city-state -one whose prosperity they had long envied, to boot. As to the Empire, its closest army was hundreds of leagues away, and otherwise occupied.

It was impossible. And yet, as general Latka could see for himself as he climbed on top of his camp’s watchtower, it was true. An entire army, hundreds of warriors at least, had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, lurching out from behind the hills, and was now charging the Hexacrat camp. And, to make matters worse, the other camp blew his horn too, announcing a second attack. A second army!

The general had had barely enough time to climb on his destrier, and task his lieutenant -Parsaba- with calling back the soldiers in the city. He had just left the camp through the western gate when the unknown enemy started battering the eastern one. The general had no delusion as to how long his camp would hold, defended by only a handful of men. And indeed, by the time he had reached the bulk of his army, the enemy was pouring out from the western gate. And to make matters worse, the other camp had fared no better.

“What in the blazes is going on?” Dahrr said as the two generals met, screaming to cover the pandemonium.

“We are being attacked,” Latka answered, keeping his voice as still as possible.

“I could tell as much! Who by?”

Latka simply shrugged, then yelled orders at his soldiers to organize a defense. A terribly cold sensation ran down his spine as he assessed his situation. Half of the Hexacrat armies were currently assailing Atvello, including most of the footsoldiers. All that was immediately available to meet the new threat were some light infantry, the archers and the light cavalry. No heavy cavalry whatever, as it had been deemed useless for the taking of a city. Maybe there was time, general Latka hoped, to reunite both halves of the two armies before the enemy reached them. Flag bearers attempted to give the other half the signal to regroup, but it seemed they were too taken by their assault to notice.

That hope proved foolish. Whatever their attackers were, they were faster than the average Demon or Human. Much more aggressive, too. The two lines of infantry, which Latka and Dahrr had had just enough time to organize, realized it at their expense; the very first line nearly faltered when they absorbed the brunt of their charge. The enemy seemed to be divided in two divisions, each having sacked one of the camps before engaging. They were attacking by the southeast and the northeast, forcing the Hexacrats to stretch their ranks.

The fact that the Hexacrats had the numbers on their side encouraged Latka somewhat. But that little hope vanished as yet another group of those enemies appeared northeast.

Hidden behind two lines of infantry and two more of archers, Latka couldn’t see much of the enemy. From what little he saw, they were tall and large. The portions of their bodies that weren’t protected by crude leather or hide armor were covered in hirsute, dark hair. Most of them weren’t using any weapons, preferring their long, powerful claws. For a moment, Latka believed he was attacked by mythical beasts, the sort old women would tell stories about to scare children. And clearly, his men thought along the same lines; the general could almost feel their morale dropping as their fear rose. General Dahrr’s Legionnaires, however, gave as good as they got. Without them to occupy the center, the situation would have been more dire still.

The battle wasn’t decided yet, General Latka told himself. Any moment now, the second half of the army would come to relieve them, led by his lieutenant. While they would be tired and possibly injured from the battle, and while it was possible the lieutenant might not be able to rally them all, they would still be sufficient to outnumber the enemy, and flank or perhaps even encircle them; Latka trusted that his lieutenant would be savvy enough to attempt the maneuver.

Perhaps the Tyrant rather than the Armilus was listening to his unspoken prayers that night. As he saw the the other half of their forces finally pouring out of the city, charging and shouting, lieutenant Parsaba riding along their left flank, he heard one of Dahrr’s sub officers shout:

“Riders! South!”

A surge of adrenaline squeezed the general’s heart as he turned south and saw a multitude of riders running down a hill, their horses galloping at full speed. Worry possessed general Latka as he wondered whether he still had enough foot soldiers -many of whom were thankfully armed with spears- to protect their southside as well. Those riders seemed to be light cavalry. Maybe if his archers sent a volley of arrows to support the front line, they might…

His worry turned to fear as he realized the enemy cavalry wasn’t charging them, but their reinforcements. Latka ordered one of his flag bearers to alert Parsaba of the incoming attack. Unfortunately, Parsaba was too busy coordinating his soldiers to notice the signals. It wasn’t until one of his own men called his attention that he realized. And, at this point, it was too late.

A hay of spears and arrows rained upon them, thrown by the riders. They were indeed a light cavalry unit, using light cavalry tactics: rather than plow into the mass of foot soldiers, they rode around them, harassing them with their projectiles. Parsaba was quickly forced to order his men to stop advancing and raise their shields. Those attacks would not be enough to overcome them or drive them away, but that was not their point, Latka realized: those riders aimed only to delay them, to prevent them from relieving their comrades.

That was when dread finally overcame the Marble Man. Back during his military school days, one of his teachers told him that there is a moment in any single battle when the general knows that defeat is possible, and a moment when he knows it is inevitable. This was the latter. While in the center, Dahrr’s Legionnaires were still holding as much as they could, the flanks occupied by Latka’s soldiers were crumbling. With the hope that the rest of the army would come to relieve them in time now squashed, there was only one way out of this situation.

“Sound the retreat!” he said to his horn blower.

“Belay that order!” Dahrr said, turning his head so quickly his neck cracked.

“What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” Dahrr retorted. “We have orders! Atvello must be taken.”

“The situation has changed,” Latka said, trying as hard as he could to keep his voice still. “We cannot take the city with an army at our back. The battle is lost! Let us retreat with what soldiers we can save.”

“The battle is only lost if the generals do not have the guts to see it through. We will stay. We will hold!”

“Dahrr, this is madness. They outnumber us-”

“Is that the sort of courage Namtar instills in his men?” Dahrr screamed, incensed. “We Legionnaires fight to the last man. We don’t run from the enemy, in violation of our orders!”

He had spat that last part, lunging towards Latka as he did. The latter looked at the battlefield, then towards the north -the last possible way through which to retreat, but for how long?-, then back at Dahrr, his heart pounding behind his plate armor, his breathing ragged. This moment, he realized, was going to be a turning point in his career and in his life. The decision he would make –had to make- would determine whether he truly was the Marble Man. Dahrr clearly noticed the conflict in him, and said:

“Run away if you must, Latka. And try not to shit under you when you do. More glory for us!”

Latka would have laughed at the absurdity of that declaration, had he but the strength. It was obvious Dahrr was trying to goad him into staying, the same way instructors motivated their recruits to keep on training when they were close to passing out. But his attempt was so ridiculous and so disconnected from the reality that surrounded them that it achieved the opposite effect.

“Blazes have you, Dahrr!” Latka screamed, and this time there was no hiding the fear and the anger in his voice. “If you wish to die here, you’ll do so alone!”

He reiterated his order to his horn blower. Moments later, the signal of the retreat -one short tone, one long tone, then another short tone- resonated in the crisp night air. The officers relayed the order by shouting: “Retreat! Retreat!”. Latka’s soldiers, many of whom were becoming winded, were suddenly possessed with a new energy. The combined result of ingrained obedience and growing despair made even the most fatigued soldier suddenly able to run.

And run, they did. In entire droves, all of the footsoldiers, all of the archers, and all of the cavalry fled from the battlefield, heading north, a few of them dropping their weapons and shields as they did. The few who didn’t run couldn’t do so, owing to their injuries. General Latka was among the last to leave, chased by General Dahrr’s insults and threats.

***

Byron’s jaw relaxed when he saw one of the armies abandon the fight. Or rather, Jackson’s jaw, and it only relaxed a little. The strategy had worked, but had only achieved half of its goals. Byron was hoping that both armies would retreat soon after the fourth corps had entered the fight, thus ending the battle. The other army, however, had elected to stay, even as their odds plummeted.

“Why is the other general not running away too?” he heard Jackson ask. “Shit, he doesn’t think he can still win, does he?”

“Either that, or he too thinks death is a preferable alternative to desertion.”

“What do we do now?”

The veteran wordlessly pulled out his sword and his ax.

The Hexacract reinforcements were quickly dealt with by the light cavalry. As soon as the lieutenant relayed the order to retreat, they broke formation and ran, leaving the very few who stayed in no condition to defend themselves. Byron redeployed the fourth corps to attack the remaining forces, composed almost entirely of heavy infantry. The Rebellion army now formed a V around them, still leaving the north side open.

“Why not encircle them completely?” Jackson asked.

“Because we don’t want to make them desperate.”

“Pretty sure we do, on account of we want them to stop fighting and all.”

“We want them demoralized,” Byron said, “but not desperate. A demoralized soldier, if he thinks he has a way out, will quit fighting. A desperate soldier, should he realize he’s doomed anyway, will fight with the strength of ten.”

And those Legionnaires were already quite skilled in battle. The veterans among them were able to stand toe-to-toe with Hellhounds. Were it not for their tactical and numerical disadvantage, they may well have been able to fight their enemy to a standstill. As it were, though, their situation was rapidly getting worse. Every time one of their companions fell, every time the Hellhound pincer tightened, every time the slingers and the spear throwers sent another volley, they were brought closer to defeat. The slings were not very effective against the suits of armor worn by the heavy infantry, but nevertheless their rocks forced them on the defensive, disrupting many attempts to counterattack.

Yet they would not yield. Byron could see the doubt and the fear in quite a few of those Legionnaires’ eyes, but barely any of them made an attempt to flee. In fact, those who lost hope entirely seemed to prefer throwing themselves in their enemies’ claws. Those behaviors were evidently enforced by the officers, who even in this battle-turned-disaster continued to harangue their underlings to keep fighting. One of them, perched atop a horse, even killed a would-be deserter by slashing his throat, dramatically enough that the other Legionnaires noticed. Byron immediately decided to engage him. Jackson felt how the veteran was disgusted -though not very surprised- at the sight of an officer murdering one of his own, but the main reason he had targeted that man was that Byron had identified him as the enemy general.

Byron managed to bring his horse close enough to attempt a strike with his sword. Unfortunately, the general reacted in time to parry the attack with his shield, then counterattack with his own sword. Byron managed to dodge the slash, in spite of his armor hindering his reflexes. A duel began between the two men. They traded blows, their moves made awkward by the lack of mobility; there was very little room around them to maneuver their horses, and in addition the full moon’s low lighting reduced the accuracy of their attacks. The general was an experienced opponent, and the perspective of defeat, far from sapping his will to fight, had filled him with anger. Byron tried again and again to overcome or bypass his enemy’s defenses, but to no avail.

Eventually, driven by the necessity to end both the fight and the battle as quickly as possible, Byron decided to change tactics. Slashing his sword wildly at his enemy’s shield to distract him, he gave the generals’ horse a quick glance. The horse, probably a destrier, was clad in iron armor, covering most of his body and the upper half of his head. Byron seized the opportunity he saw to hack into the horse’s throat with his ax, striking it three times quickly. Panicked, the horse reared, tossing the general on his back with great fracas. The wound didn’t seem too bad in spite of all the blood, as the horse then took off at full speed.

Before the general could get back on his feet, groaning and swearing, Byron emptied his stirrups and jumped off his horse, dropping heavily on his opponent. Although both impacts seemed to have knocked the wind out of him, the general still tried to keep on fighting. Byron kept him down, weighing as heavily on him as he could, and kicked his sword out of reach. Then, he grabbed the general’s helmet with both hands, and ripped it off.

“Order your men to surrender,” he yelled, pressing the edge of his ax against the general’s now uncovered throat.

“Order them yourself!” the general said, before spitting in his face.

Spurred on by his adrenaline, Byron nearly cut the man’s throat here and there, but managed to control himself. This was what the general wanted, of course: to be killed in order to avoid capture -not to mention the shame of surrendering.

“Oh, I won’t kill you,” Byron said, removing the ax.

“You don’t have the guts, you yellow-bellied bastard!”

“But you only need your tongue to give the order,” he continued, ignoring the provocation.

He moved his weapon behind the general’s ear, then grabbed its helix between two fingers. His enemy’s breath quivered, and he paled. Just as Byron predicted, the general was none too scared of death, reasoning it a preferable alternative. However, pain, or even the mere perspective of it, had the ability to overpower reason, especially when served with a side of maiming. Still, the general didn’t yield.

“You don’t have the guts,” he said, his voice raspy.

Without hesitation, Byron cut one inch into the flesh, drawing enough blood to fill a wine glass. Jackson had the soul equivalent of a whole-body shudder as he heard the wet noise. The general clenched his teeth, but a second later, shouted:

“Go ahead and cut it off! I’ll suffer a thousand tortures before I fail my Archcommander.”

This is pointless, Byron thought. He could see it in the general’s eyes. He had seen this look a hundred times: the look of a man willing to die for his cause. And so, with a quick move, Byron obliged him. The general had barely time to let out a final gurgle before life left his body.

“Damn, Byron,” Jackson said. “I bet there are mud wrestlers who don’t fight as dirty as you.”

“Does this look like the right place for manners and restraint?” Byron muttered.

“Oh, I wasn’t criticizing. What’s the plan now?”

“Grab the next officer and hope he’s not as loyal.”

It wasn’t much of a plan, in reality, and Byron knew it. Given how tightly packed the Legionnaires now were, finding and reaching an officer was nearly impossible. Unfortunately, it seemed more likely that the battle would only end when the last enemy had dropped to the ground. Byron had experience with the “better to die standing” mentality before. It was a very convenient tool for leaders, albeit a difficult one to wield. While it reduced the rates of desertion, it also raises rates of casualties -and not just on the enemy’s side. This was of course less of a downside for the Hexacracy, which once again could simply raise more soldiers.

The battle went on for about two more hours. While the Legionnaires fought bravely overall, there was little bravery could accomplish at this point. Thankfully, it turned out that many of them were not completely devoted to either their Archcommander or to the cause, and the threat of distant reprisals only went so far when compared to a much more imminent and concrete threat. After over a hundred of them died, including several officers, many of them finally fled without order, leaving the rest to be captured.

Almost all of the latter opposed no resistance when told to drop their weapons, but one of them had decided to go down fighting. It was, judging by his armor, a lower officer. By the way his left leg was limping, he had begun the battle on a horse, but had taken a bad fall. The man was making large slashing motions with his spear, spitting insults left and right with a strained voice that betrayed how little energy he had left, taunting his enemies and belittling his allies.

“I say we wait until he drops unconscious,” a Hellhound suggested with a snicker.

“I say we push him down and bet on how many times he gets up,” another said.

The debate was ended when a Longclaw of the third corps grabbed the spear mid-swing with both her paws, then ripped it off the officer’s hands. In the same move, the Longclaw then struck the man in the helmet with the handle, with such strength that the spear was broken in half. The man fell on his back, still conscious but very much stunned.

There was suddenly some sort of lull over the battlefield. Byron was familiar with this moment as well. It was the moment of uncertainty that preceded the realization that the battle was over. A moment of relative silence, except for the moanings of the wounded, eventually ended by the cheers of the victors.

And those cheers were loud. Some Hellhounds howled in triumph, soon joined by a chorus of their sisters. Then, their ranks began resonating with a shout, starting in the front lines and finding its way to the rear. A single word, or rather a single name.

“Mad Jack!… Mad Jack!… Mad Jack!… Mad Jack!…”

In a blink, Byron-Jackson was surrounded by a cheering crowd, their arms extended to touch him, grab him, hoist him up. Byron decided this was the perfect time to give his body back to Jackson, letting the young man enjoy the fruits of his work. The Hellhounds were as rough as they were loud, but Jackson didn’t really mind. He was just as happy as they were that the battle was over. He took off his helmet and wiped the hair off his forehead.

All of a sudden, the crowd split up in front of Jackson, opening the way for another Hellhound who walked briskly towards him, her orange eyes shining brightly as were the luminous lines under them. His heart swelled.

“Alizana!” he called out. “We won, we-”

She was on him within seconds, wrapping her arms around him, and pressing her body against his. Their mouths met like it was the most natural thing in the world. Some of the cheers in the crowd around them turned to whistles or to laughter.

The kiss was hasty and clumsy, owing to the fact that both of them were worn out from the battle. The taste of sweat and dirt soured their lips. Jackson had cramps and hematomas in multiple places, especially the ones Alizana was holding on to, and blood dripped from her busted lip. Yet that kiss was perfection. Warm, wet, and passionate. As she pushed her tongue past his lips, he even forgot how badly he wanted to take off every piece of his damned armor and toss them in the garbage, starting with his chest plate so he could finally breathe freely.

He couldn’t help but grunt in disappointment when the kiss ended. Were it not for the solid chance that it would happen again, he might well have screamed. His lips stretched into a smile so large it was almost painful. Floating on a cloud, and bolstered by a confidence powerful enough to make him forget his fatigue, he turned towards Atvello, held on to Alizana’s paw, and marched towards the liberated city.

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