The Pulver Chronicles – 31. A Warm December With You

It would have been an understatement to say that the battle of Baluq had an impact felt through the Southern Marches. Said impact had been very progressive, starting off as a rumor. A silly, mad rumor: an Archdemon had died in battle near Vertrisia, far away from any Imperial forces, and his entire army had been defeated. Not many had believed it at first, especially when another detail was added to it, that the Archdemon’s son and only issue had died alongside him. A ridiculous rumor, truly! What had clearly happened was, the Hexacracy had lost some skirmish in a meridional march, to either some marquess or a particularly bold group of bandits, and the story had been inflated through retellings. Another week or two, and you would hear that all six Archdemons had met their fate there, no doubt!

But the rumor persisted, unchanged but for certain added details. The Archdemon was supposedly Namtar, Archmaster of the Silver Ridge. He had been killed at the very beginning of the battle, while his son had been defeated in duel by none other than the legendary Mad Jack. The army numbered almost two thousand soldiers, archers, and knights, including quite a few mercenaries. And while some had managed to escape, the majority had been killed or taken prisoner. Those details remained consistent through subsequent tellings, no matter where. Minstrels sang them at marquesses’ courts, travelers mentioned them in various inns, merchants relayed them in towns and cities.

There remained quite a few skeptics through the Marches, until reports came from Atvello and other cities, concerning prisoners being sent there. And not just a few: hundreds of them. They were seen, marching in chains in columns through the streets of Atvello, headed to the docks, where undoubtedly they would be shipped off to C’fa or some other distant place, to be sold as slaves. The locals greeted them with jeers and insults, and the occasional throwing of mud or garbage.

Some changes happened over the Marches. Slight changes, but noticeable. Word had it that two offensives planned by the Hexacracy had been stalled, including one in Empire-occupied territory, meant to divert the Emperor’s attention. The siege of a fort on the border was even abandoned; according to rumor, reinforcements were expected that never came. Meanwhile, the Eastern Empire pressed on, advancing further in the Southern Marches.

And then, as if to permanently silence any unbeliever left, something was sent to Atvello by their mysterious allies, the same presumably that saved the city from siege. The Gilded Council had the gift exposed on the marketplace for several weeks. It consisted of two suits of armor. Some of the folks didn’t recognize them at first, but then others pointed out the sigils on the tabards. Between them and the fact that those tailor-made armors had clearly been crafted for somebody wealthy, there was no doubt: those used to belong to Namtar and his son. Amid the population, there were laughs and hurrahs, and there was a song. A new song, invented for the occasion. Its paternity was unclear, as three different bards claimed to have come up with it.

Jackson eventually heard it, when a minstrel proved brave enough to enter the Vertrisian Forest, in the hopes to meet with Mad Jack himself. He had quickly been captured by patrolling hunters, along with the small group that accompanied him. The minstrel managed to convince their captors of their good intentions, and was allowed to enter the Neha camp, though without any weapon. The man was led to Alizana’s tent, while the rest of the group was allowed to rest under one of the communal tents to keep from the wind. He was received with little ceremony: everybody was sitting on the floor, around a small table. The food consisted of seeds and grilled mushrooms, water was the only drink.

His name was Ardito. He had the short stature and the lithe silhouette of a circus acrobat, and dressed as if he used to be a jester at an impoverished noble’s court. His balding scalp was hidden by a large flat cap decorated with various flowers which he had seemingly picked along his journey. “Comical” seemed the most appropriate word to describe his facial features: his long, celestial nose, his short, pointed, orange beard with no mustache, his large cheekbones, his thick, orange eyebrows, and the red blotches all over his skin. It was also the proper word for his demeanor. The man was constantly in motion, making exaggerated gestures to accompany his speech, which was both musical and theatrical. Evidently, the man had made gathering attention and spreading laughter into a career. His own introduction alone had been enough to make Sathariel and Alizana suppress a giggle.

Right after he had been introduced -and had introduced himself- to the man named Mad Jack, he came very close to him, holding his chin in one hand, and leaned this way and that as if to inspect him from all sides.

“Hmm-mmm!” he said. “A bit of a problem, I suppose, yes, yes.”

“What’s that?” Jackson said.

“You are not quite as depicted in the song, no, not quite. Your hair was assumed to be brown as chestnuts, for one. As to your beard… While somewhat hirsute, it does not really qualify as barbarian.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“Oh! Not at all, not at all. I shall simply correct the lyrics. After all, it’s only the first stanza, and only its first lines. All of the others describe you in your battle gear, and focus more on your deeds. Yes, yes.” He leaned towards Jackson’s chest, his long nose almost touching it. “Is this dryadelle?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course, dryadelle. Of course, of course! Heroes do not wear mere linen or wool. As to the armor, eh, hmm…”

Said armor was stored on a makeshift wooden mannequin, next to the chest that contained Jackson’s weapons. As Ardito inspected it, twisting his spine as he did, Jackson decided it needed some cleaning. Its greaves were still covered with dirt from Baluq, as did the gauntlets, and the helmet reeked of old sweat.

“Not much of a hero’s armor, no, no,” Ardito concluded.

“It’s a suit of armor,” Jackson said with a shrug. “It’s fine. Battles aren’t fashion contests.”

Did I just say that?

“It’s not quite your size. As to the style… Hmm! It looks like you have assembled the whole thing from parts you’ve picked up here and there.”

“That’s because that’s exactly what I did.”

“Oof!” Ardito said. “Nevermind the aesthetic, that cannot be comfortable, no, no. Have you not considered having one made to your measure by a smith?”

“I have, as a matter of fact. One of the Prince Merchants offered me one, using Navna’s armor for materials. It’s gonna take a while to make, though.”

“Ah-ah!” The minstrel pointed a finger at Jackson. “So it is true you enjoy the Gilded Council’s patronage.”

“We are allies in this war,” Sathariel said. “As they say, they provide the gold, we provide the iron.”

“Oh, yes, yes, it is known,” Ardito said. “It is known indeed. A wise investment, says the Council of you. A mere mercenary, moans the Hexacracy. And who is this Navna you mentioned?”

“Namtar’s son,” Jackson said. “He died at Baluq too.”

“Of course! The man you killed in a duel.”

“I defeated him in a duel. He killed himself right after. I wanted to capture him alive.”

“That does indeed make for a better song, yes, yes,” Ardito said, his brown eyes lighting up in excitement. “The hero triumphs over his opponent and offers him mercy, but the vanquished villain cannot take the burden of failure and takes his own life. Oh yes.”

Jackson raised a hand. “I didn’t care about the song. It just made more sense to take him alive. We could have ransomed him to his nobles for a buttload of money.”

“Is there something you want here?” Alizana asked, getting impatient. “Other than meeting us and making sure your song is accurate?”

Ardito examined her with curiosity. “Is this the furious beast you ride in battle?” he asked Jackson.

“Excuse me?” Alizana said, her face darkening.

“Not in battle,” Jackson dropped before he could stop himself.

Alizana glared at him, cocking her head. Sathariel coughed to cover his laughter. Byron did his trademark eyeroll.

“Oh!” The minstrel raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I meant no offense, no, no. It’s just that the song tells of a great, furious beast, with hirsute dark hair and long fangs that can cut through bone and steel alike, and which Mad Jack rides as he charges the enemy. A bit of an exaggeration, then, I take it?”

“Just a bit,” Alizana said, her tone biting but tranquil.

“I apologize, truly.” He reported his attention to Jackson. “But, you see, this is why it is good that I came. Songs are sung about you, sire, and it seems they care little for accuracy. Only natural, of course, but I aim to change that. Songs turn mere rumors into legends, and legends outlast the people that inspired them, sometimes by centuries. I would ensure your legend remains as close to the facts as possible.”

“You are too kind,” Jackson said with a half-smile. “And I presume you expect to be paid for this?”

“Sir Mad Jack!” Ardito recoiled, a hand barring his chest. “Had you pulled out your sword and ran me through with it, you would not have wounded me more. I did not come here begging for coins, no sire! In truth, I live as much as I can, foraging here, fishing there, on occasion accepting the charity of a cot or a warm meal. The life of a minstrel is not one of wealth, oh no. Our fortunes are made out of the stories we carry; they are our only real currency.

“And that is the main reason I came to you, sir Mad Jack. You shall make mine own fortune. Heroes are always a rich source of stories. Through you, I shall create fine songs that all of Varda shall sing for generations, yes, yes, I dare say!”

“So you want to… what, be my biographer?”

There sure would be a lot of material for songs, he thought, but I doubt most people would believe the lyrics.

“But of course,” Ardito said. “My whole life so far, I have only told the stories of past heroes, save for Jadatyy, eight years ago -and her own story did not last long, alas.”

“You knew the Pirate Queen?” Sathariel said.

“Indeed. Sailed with her, I did, serving on her flagship. Many a song I sang to lift her crew’s spirits, and many a storm I faced alongside them. I was there when her first mate and lover betrayed her to Atvello’s militia, and led her into a trap, then into a watery grave. Ah!”

His mouth dropped in an exaggerated expression of grief.

“Living heroes are a rarity,” he said. “And, habitually, by the time bards and minstrels such as I hear of them, their time in this world is already over. But not this time, no, no! I have joined that play in the first act, and I will be there until the last one.”

“Well, good for you,” Alizana said. “Does that mean you’ll be living among us?”

“I wouldn’t abuse your hospitality so, no, no. I merely require the permission to enter your lands at will, that I may speak with each of you regularly, and perhaps perform my music to your people. As for the rest, I have my tent and my horse, and I can live off the land as I said.”

Alizana turned to the others. “What do you think?”

“Sure, why not?” Jackson said. I suppose we can always use good PR, he said to himself and to Byron.

“PR, right,” Byron said. “You just want songs about you.”

“Hell yeah, I want songs about me!” Jackson thought-said. “You heard him: I’m a fucking hero! But it would be good if people talked about us, and not just to say that we are deserters or wild beasts.”

“I have no objections either,” Sathariel said.

“Then it’s fine by me,” Alizana told Ardito. “Several of our camps, including ours, have unused huts, if you wish.”

“A thousand thanks, chieftain, sires,” Ardito said with a bow so deep it looked like he was going to perform a somersault. “I shall now take my leave of you. The journey has been long, yes, and I need to eat and rest.”

As soon as he left, Sathariel said: “That was interesting.”

“I suppose,” Alizana said, pursing her lips.

“You’re still mad about that riding beast thing?” Jackson said, smiling. “The guy said he was gonna change the lyrics.”

“And will he change the minds of the people, too?”

The young man did not answer, instead taking her paw in his hand to brush it gently. Sathariel waited until she had visibly cooled down to say:

“There’s another person who wants to meet with us. Shall I let them in?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Jackson said. “They probably won’t be as entertaining, though.”

That second person was a Demoness, with wine red skin, standing at around six feet tall, no longer young but not quite old yet. Her head was square-shaped, and topped with dark, short hair braided in cornrows. Two onyx black horns circled it, decorated with small carvings. Black and orange tattoos adorned the birth of her neck, and seemed to go down to her chest; not seeing the full picture, Jackson wasn’t sure what they represented: flames, perhaps? Her ears were pierced, and wore two brass earrings each. She was dressed in a black leather armor reinforced with iron, with a black tabard and a pair of bulky-looking, black leather boots. Her two gray eyes gave the hut a cursory look before meeting Jackson’s gaze. She placed her fist against her chest, and nodded sharply. Jackson noticed that the back of her hand had some pretty nasty burn scars, looking like a spider’s web.

“You are Mad Jack,” she said. “I am Tezrian.”

Her voice had a rasp and sounded hoarse -the latter possibly from the journey.

“Uh, okay?” Jackson said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Please sit down,” Alizana said.

She did, her eyes now planted in Alizana’s.

“You are the leader of the Hellhounds. I recognize your fire; it burns with intensity and warms your people. I do not know your name.”

The Demoness spoke in a monotone, almost sounding robotic.

“My name is Alizana,” the Hellhound said, her nostrils flaring. “How do you know about my people? How do you know I’m their leader?”

“I have seen it,” she answered laconically.

“Seen it where?” Jackson asked.

“In the flames.”

Sathariel blinked, then said: “You’re a scryer?”

“Yes. I have seen the battle at Baluq. I believe I’ve seen your fire as well. Or rather, the shadows it casted. You weren’t at Baluq, but your words were, carried in the hearts of some of your enemies, dousing the flames of their courage.”

The young Demon looked uneasy. Jackson felt the way he looked. Was that woman referring to Sathariel’s infiltration of the enemy camps and the spreading of rumors concerning Leunnya meant to sap their morale? Did she really know about that? Jackson had seen scrying work in this world before -work quite well, in fact-, but still he was going to need more proof that the woman was not a fraud or trying to pull something. Just because magic was real didn’t mean charlatans weren’t.

“I have seen you most of all,” the Demoness -Tezrian, she said her name was- went on, gesturing to Jackson. “The fire your warriors unleashed reaped Namtar, his soldiers, and his son. The horses and the men fell by a threat they couldn’t see. The son screamed cowardice at his men and trickery at you. I have seen his fire kill a Hellhound before he turned it against himself. I have seen all of this, and I knew.”

The memory unsettled Jackson’s stomach. He continued to say nothing and let her talk.

“Never have I observed fire such as the one your people used there. Fire usually devours men slowly, spreading and consuming them. The one you used at Baluq was quick like lightning. It went through flesh and steel, yet barely burnt either. It was no Arcane, though, not like the one used by the Archdemon’s son. And neither was it the fire that naturally occurs in the summer dry air or when lightning strikes a tree.”

She took a deep breath, her short nose humming the air.

“It was the Purest Flame,” she said sententiously.

The Purest Flame? Where had Jackson heard those words before? Oh…

“You’re with the House of the Living Flame?” he said.

“I was, once,” Tezrian said. “But never truly a part of it. My views were always considered a deviation from the House’s dogma. It never made sense to me that the Purest Flame could be found in the constraints of the dark basement of some lonely house. Fire is wild, wilder even than the wind or the ocean. It must be sought out, not waited for patiently in the dark. Many times I have tried to convince my brothers and sisters of this, and many times I have been told to change my beliefs, that I had been deceived by impure flames. But I kept true to what the fire was showing me. Ultimately, I was deemed too heretical and ordered to leave. So I began roaming the world, to seek the Purest Flame.”

“And you believe you found it,” Sathariel said.

“I know I have. It is said the Purest Flame is unlike any flame ever observed or scryed. At Baluq, what I’ve seen doesn’t compare to anything ever witnessed. It is said the Purest Flame will carve a new world from the old one. At Baluq, it did just that. And…”

Her eyes met with Jackson’s again.

“It is said the Purest Flame is not of this world.”

The young man frowned. Wait. Is she saying…?

“Is that a metaphor?” Sathariel asked prudently.

“I have long wondered what it meant,” Tezrian said. “Was the Purest Flame from the divine realm, a fruit of that strange, impersonal god the Imperial Cult worships, or perhaps a portion of Them? Did it originate from the shapeless, primordial chaos where the Armilus will be born, as the Armilusians believe? It was only when I saw the one they called Mad Jack in my fires that I understood.”

“You saw my fire, too?” Jackson asked.

“Fires,” she corrected. “Two flames, light and dark, burning inside one man, where in all other men there is only one. Two flames joining to create a third one, stronger and purer.”

The young man’s breath caught in his chest. Alizana, who was eating a handful of seeds, choked on a few and coughed.

“What does that mean?” Sathariel inquired, this time not so much skeptical as accusatory.

“I am not sure,” Tezrian admitted. “I can sense some strange magic around you, Mad Jack, yet I can also sense that you yourself have no affinity with the Arcanes. Your fires both burn differently from the fires of any other person of this world. I have met many, from powerful magis to impotent bejans; none of their fires even remotely resembles yours.”

She was now speaking with passion, becoming breathless. In other circumstances, Jackson might have been flattered, and his pride might have swollen, but all he felt at the moment was discomfort. That Demoness had never met him, yet she seemed to know a great deal about him.

“What is it you want, exactly?” Alizana said.

“To join you,” Tezrian simply answered. The woman seemed to alternate between passionate tirades and laconism.

“Join us? Our Rebellion doesn’t need priests, thank you.”

Alizana’s tone had turned sour, suddenly.

“Well, hold on,” Jackson said. “Let’s think about this. We could use her.”

“I’m with Jack,” Sathariel said. “Even after Baluq, we’re still outnumbered. Can we afford to turn down any help?”

The Hellhound gnawed on her lip. “Hmph. What can you do besides preach?”

“I’m a trained fighter. I served in the Hexacracy’s armies for two years. After I finished my service, the House of the Living Flame called me.”

“We can definitely use fighters,” Jackson said. “What about your scrying? Can you use that to help us?”

“I have devoted my Talent to serving the Purest Flame. If, as I believe, you and your people are their bearer, then I will of course use it to help in your war.”

“All right,” Alizana said, her tail wagging with impatience. “Please leave my hut. We need to discuss this between us.”

Tezrian got on her feet, joined hands before her, and bowed, her torso leaning slightly as her right knee bent a little. According to Sathariel, that was a traditional salute in the eastern, mountainous regions of the Hexacracy. She left, pulling the curtain over the entrance after her.

“I don’t like her,” Alizana said bluntly.

“Why not?” Jackson said. “I mean, she comes off as a religious nut, but she’s a religious nut with magical powers that wants to fight on our side. How many magis do we have?”

“None,” Sathariel answered. “A few of the Demons and Humans who joined us have some vestigial Talent, but barely enough to warm a cup or sprout a leaf. The Elven shamans won’t join us in battle, either. Supposedly, they are forbidden to use their Talent for aggression; I think it’s actually because they’re powerless outside their forest.”

“Aren’t there, like, magis for hire?”

“Hmm. I’m not sure how much I’d trust a mercenary magi. But at any rate, the truly gifted ones are invariably the most expensive, and we need every coin.”

“Right. Well, we get that magi for free. Why turn her down?”

“I don’t like priests,” Alizana said. “The Hexacracy had some serving in their armies. Always preaching that we were inferior creatures, and telling us we should be glad to have masters.” She let out a growl, revealing her clenched fangs. “Religion is a tool for power, made to aid the rulers in keeping their subjects obedient. The likes of the Emperor and the Archcommander use it to give their tyranny some legitimacy.”

Jackson decided not to argue that point, sensing that Alizana’s opinions on the subject were deeply held. And she was not the only one among her people to feel this way. Hellhounds in general were not particularly religious. They practiced some form of cult of the ancestors, and honored their fallen, but it was more traditional than spiritual. Some had developed a form of animism, revering the forces of nature, but it was mostly informal and had no clergy. Alizana continued:

“The House of the Living Flame is from the Hexacracy. Their priests hide themselves and their rituals in the darkness. Who knows who they owe fealty to? They can’t be trusted.”

“I am from the Hexacracy,” Sathariel said. “Can you trust me?”

“That’s…” Her anger dimmed. “That’s different, of course. You have proved yourself.”

“Because you gave me a chance to do so. Why not give her one as well?”

Alizana crossed her arms over chest.

“Yeah, and there’s another problem,” Jackson said, still a little rattled.

“What’s that?” Sathariel said.

“She knows too much. We kinda have to keep her around.”

“Knows too much? What does that mean?”

“You heard her. She knows I’m not from this world. Hell, she even seems to know about Byron. We need her on our side; who knows who she might talk to otherwise?”

“Probably no one.” Sathariel shrugged. “According to her, she’s an exile. Even the House won’t have her anymore.”

“And even if she talks,” Alizana said, “who will believe her? As you said, she’s a religious nutter.”

“I guess, but… I don’t want to take that chance. Imagine if people learned all that crap. Imagine what that would do to us, to our reputation. Hell, there are already a lot of folks who are leery about us. What if they knew I’ve got some kind of Forbidden Arcane shit going on?” He pointed at Byron before remembering no one could see him.

“This wasn’t your doing,” Alizana pointed out.

“Right, and you think people will care about that? Being created by Namtar wasn’t your doing either, but if people in the Southern Marches knew, they’d hate you for it all the same.”

She nodded, lowering her gaze.

“All right, well, I guess our decision is made,” Sathariel said. “Tezrian can stay with us. We’ll wait until we know how well she fights before adding her to our armies.”

“And our tribe,” Alizana said. “Heh, at this rate I’ll soon have more Demons than Hellhounds among the Neha.”

Sathariel got out to inform Tezrian of their decision. He later reported that the Demoness had not seemed happy or overjoyed, or even surprised. She had simply nodded and thanked him. According to Sathariel, it was as if he was telling her something she already knew.

The rest of their group, it turned out, had come to join as well. Several tribes received similar guests the weeks after Baluq, quite a few of whom elected to stay. Some had been wronged by the Hexacracy and wished to fight, but not on the side of the Empire. Some were soldiers or warriors who, much like Ardito, had been inspired by the tales of Mad Jack and Alizana, and wished to find glory in battle. And some were refugees from the war, hoping to start a new life in the Vertrisian Forest. With the Hexacracy continuing to lay waste to the countryside, and several marquess warring against each other, it had become one of the safest places in the Southern Marches for those who didn’t have the coin to live in the cities.

Most were allowed to stay, some in the forest, others in allied towns and villages. The greeting they received varied from tribe to tribe. Some were welcomed with open arms, others were only accepted after some tests and deliberations -sometimes lasting days. At least one tribe didn’t let anyone join, or even stay. Jackson was not surprised to learn it was the Nali tribe -Culli’s tribe. Their conservative attitude, it seemed, had not changed. He asked Alizana if anything could be done about that.

“No, it is their right to enforce the rules they want among their own tribe,” Alizana said. “We can’t force them to accept outsiders anymore than they can force us not to.”

Jackson accepted the argument, albeit reluctantly. Thankfully, he managed to convince other tribes to take the rejected migrants.

Two weeks after the battle of Baluq, a ceremony was held by the gathered tribes, to honor the fallen warriors. Baluq had been a great victory without a doubt, but it had cost the Rebellion one hundred and eighty souls, mostly in the infantry. While it was nothing compared to the almost one thousand casualties and nearly as many wounded and prisoners on the Hexacrat side, the loss was still felt dearly. There were also an additional hundred wounded, at least two of whom eventually died of their wounds, and several of whom would not be able to fight again. Another dozen or so warriors were missing. One of the tribe chieftains proposed to make the ceremony an annual tradition, to commemorate both the victory and those who had given their lives to make it possible. Jackson took that opportunity to create that stele he thought of earlier with Sathariel’s help. It was placed in a grove near the center of the western Vertrisian Forest.

As to the bodies of Namtar and his son Navna, they had simply been dropped in some isolated part of the woods, and left to the scavengers. Several Hellhounds had suggested more… creative uses for them, but their ideas had been shot down.

In the following months, life slowed down among the Hellhounds as the weather grew colder, rainier, and windier. There were fewer raids, and no more significant engagement. Trade grew more scarce too, although it continued. For the most part, all efforts were now focused on one thing: preparing for the winter. The same held true all over the Southern Marches, for all three sides involved in the war. All military operations stalled until they stopped. Battles and skirmishes became fewer in number as the armies retreated to towns and fortresses.

As the days of fall faded away, Jackson, Alizana, and all of the tribe chieftains did everything they could to ensure proper food supply all through the cold months. They bought as much grain, fruits, and vegetables as possible from the allied cities. The summer had thankfully been bountiful, but all the same more food had to be imported from further away, mostly from C’fa. Atvello agreed to pay for these imports, although that meant they also reduced their donations of weapons and armors for the time being; the Gilded Council’s generosity was not boundless. Hunters and gatherers also worked overtime, collecting as much food as possible before the trees lost their last leaves.

The tribes’ granaries were almost all full by the time the first chill arrived. Still, Alizana was concerned it wouldn’t be enough. Knowing by now how much a single Hellhound could eat in one seating, Jackson tended to share her concerns, but resolved to remain optimistic. More food could still be found, after all. There were still animals in the forest, and some plants probably grew in the winter.

The cold arrived abruptly. The Vertrisian Forest went from a relatively mild night to a near-freezing morning. It wasn’t quite as cold as the winters Jackson had known when he lived with the Dorsetts, when the barren fields were covered with a thick blanket of snow, but the difference of temperature from one day to another was seizing. It was a good thing most tribes had skilled tanners and sewers, transforming the pelts and hides collected by the hunters into warm clothing. Jackson was actually a little surprised to find out how sensitive to the cold the Hellhounds were. Those massive lupine creatures were after all covered in fur, as well as several layers of muscle and fat. Byron suggested this was more likely the result of a psychological aversion.

As to Jackson himself, he found it easy to keep warm. In addition to the thick clothes and the well-built huts, he had a little thing that helped him sleep through even the coldest nights. Well, not so little, in fact: a Hellhound in his bed. More efficient and far more enjoyable than any electric blanket. The only downside was that, some nights, he didn’t get much sleep at all -a downside he didn’t mind any. While it hadn’t been publicly announced, Alizana and Jackson’s relationship was known to the entire Neha tribe, and in many other tribes as well. Alizana had never made it a secret, often showing affection for her mate in public.

Happily, Hellhounds proved a lot more accepting of their union than most other cultures down in the Southern Marches. It certainly helped that theirs wasn’t the only union of this sort among the Rebellion, or even the first. In fact, as the months went by, many Hellhounds of all tribes became pregnant. Gotta keep warm through the winter, Jackson thought with a chuckle.

While this was of course joyous news for the expectant mothers and their partners, it represented a problem for the Rebellion, as Byron pointed out. The majority of those future mothers were warriors in the Rebellion’s army, and wouldn’t be able to pick up arms again in the spring, when the war would unthaw. And not just during their pregnancies: the children they would bring into this world would need to be cared for. A few tribes, having either foreseen that issue or gone through it before, had created a system resembling creches, wherein all of the tribe’s children -or rather: the tribe’s daughters- would be gathered and cared for by the equivalent of wet-nurses, who were often mothers themselves, while their parents were hunting or warring. Mothers could of course keep their children with them through the day if they so wished: the system was a tradition, but by no means an obligation.

Soon, quite a few other tribes decided to adopt that system upon the advice of Alizana. Byron made several suggestions towards the creation of some sort of uniformized training for the carers, to make sure they knew what they were doing -and to help keep the child mortality rate to a minimum. Not all of his suggestions were accepted, however. While Mad Jack’s experience and knowledge were now widely accepted when it came to warfare, people were more skeptical as to what he knew of child-rearing. While his recommendation to not feed the children any alcohol (which Jackson discovered was actually a not uncommon practice in this world) was accepted without much fuss -thankfully, alcohol was not popular with Hellhounds in general, outside of celebrations-, quite a few mothers fought back against his suggestion that children should not be brought during hunts. Hunting was part of a Hellhound’s nature, they argued. How were they to learn otherwise? Byron eventually dropped the matter. Luckily, those mothers were wise enough to only bring their daughters once they knew how to talk and run.

One morning, as Jackson and Alizana were helping with fixing a large hut, the young man noticed that her lover was gazing at one of her tribemates’ newborn child with a strange expression on her face. The child was playing with her mother, pulling on the hairs of her leg’s fur, and screaming joyfully as she did.

“She’s cute,” he commented. “Loud, but cute.”

Alizana answered with an absent-minded “hmm-hmm”.

“You okay?”

She finally looked at him, biting her upper lip, something looking like guilt in her eyes. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Uh-oh, Jackson thought. Is she…?

“I…” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been taking bittermoon juice.”

Jackson frowned. “Uh… I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a drink made from bittermoon flowers; you know, those pale white flowers with gray spots. Your friend Bonnie told me about it, and taught me how to make it.”

“Okay?…” He put down the hammer he was using.

“The Vertrisian Elves use it- That is, their women use it when… When they don’t want to have children.”

“Oh.” He hesitated. “Do you… Do you not want kids?”

Alizana placed a paw around his bust. “I do, in fact. I want to have children. I want to have your children.”

Jackson stuttered. “Ah, I… Well…”

“But not now,” she said. “Not in the midst of a war, and not in a world where tyrants could make them into slaves. I want my children to grow free, like I wasn’t allowed to.”

“Uh, yeah, I get that,” the young man said.

Alizana picked up some nails from a bucket, and went back to fixing the hut. “I just wanted you to know that. I don’t like keeping secrets from you, especially after you shared all of yours with me.”

The hut was finished a little after lunch. It looked much better: all of the holes in its roof had been patched, and the walls had been thickened and greased to better keep the heat. Its owner and her Demon companion were very thankful to the rest of the tribe for their help. After a quick lunch, Jackson went to look for Sathariel, whom he hadn’t seen all day. His friend was once again hanging out with Nadikel at the next camp over. Jackson found the two of them sitting on a bench near the river and away from camp, both looking distant and glum. Nadikel was hunched over, apparently fascinated by the tip of his shoes, while Sathariel was staring at the running water.

“Hey guys,” Jackson said. “What’s up?”

Sathariel forced a smile when he saw his friend, and stood up to shake his hand. He turned back to Nadikel and spoke to him in Hellian. Jackson, who had picked up some notions of the language, understood he said something like “see you later”. Nadikel stood up as well, mutely bid them both goodbye, and went back to the camp.

“Looks like you got stuff going on,” Jackson said after he left. “Should I come back?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Nadikel just… received some bad news, that’s all.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Sathariel shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s nothing anyone can do. But let’s leave that aside. Did you want something?”

“Yeah, uh, do you have time to talk?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Yeah, sure”? He too was picking up Jackson’s speech patterns, the young man thought. In fact, in addition to his friend and Alizana, Jackson had noticed that several of his tribemates had adopted some of his expressions. Initially they had only used them because they found them amusing, but eventually it had become a habit.

Jackson and his friend went on a walk, circling the tribe’s camp. As they did, they heard high-pitched voices. Some were talking, some were singing, most were screaming. Jackson quickly figured out it was the tribe’s creche. In addition to the large hut, it had a large enclosed yard in which the children were let out to run and vent their extra energy. Jackson found the fact that they were basically treated like wild animals kind of amusing. He went to observe the installations a little closer. The fifteen or so children were under the supervision of two people, the Hellhound wet-nurse and a male Human who was apparently some sort of teacher. The latter looked pretty out of his depth, trying to control Hellhound kids who were faster and stronger than him in spite of their young age, and in addition seemed to quite enjoy making him chase after them. Eventually, the wet-nurse rapped a stick on the enclosure, signaling the end of recess -or whatever they called it. There was a collective groan of disappointment, and everyone went back inside.

Sathariel rested his elbows over the enclosure, while Jackson leaned back against it. Through the foliage, the sky was clouded, but it didn’t look like it would rain anytime soon.

“What did you want to talk about?” the former said.

“Liz kinda just dropped a bombshell on me.”

Predictably, the figure of speech confused Sathariel. “Bomb? Like those things you told me about, that can destroy buildings?”

“Yeah, nah, I mean, she told me something that… Well, it was pretty big.”

“Ah. What did she say? Is she okay?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s great. She, uh, she told me… She told me she wanted kids. Like, with me. My kids. Well, our kids. Kinda freaked me out, I guess.”

He cleared his throat, mentally slapping himself for sounding like an idiot. Sathariel’s facial expression changed subtly; the corners of his lips dropped, something in his eyes dimmed.

“I see,” he only said.

“What’s wrong, buddy?”

Sathariel scratched the underneath of his nose with his index finger. “Okay. I don’t think Nadikel would want me to tell you this, so keep mum about it, please.”

“Yeah, you got it.”

The young Demon leaned a little more on the enclosure. “Nadikel has taken a lover in his tribe, some time ago.”

Jackson was about to say something along the lines of “good for him”, but opted to abstain. Evidently, something had transpired out of this relationship that wasn’t good at all.

“They’ve tried for a child and, almost four months ago, his lover got pregnant.” He sighed. “They were very happy. Nadikel had even started building a crib. But two days ago, something happened. The mother got terrible pains, and started panicking. They got a wet-nurse, who said something was wrong with the child.”

“Oh no…”

“Aye… Within hours, the mother got into labor, long before term. The child was… dead long before she left the womb.”

Jackson cursed under his breath. “Do you think they’ll try for another kid?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you the worst part: they weren’t the only case.”

More dead babies? Ah, fuck.

“What the hell happened?”

“We wondered that as well, and tried to find out. Had we done something wrong? Eaten something wrong? Some even blamed the forest, saying it really was cursed. There was one thing we figured out quickly: all the fathers are like Nadikel.”

“You mean they’re Demons?” Jackson said, confused. That didn’t make sense. Demons and Hellhounds were compatible. He personally knew several such couples who had had children.

“Demons who were conscripted in the Gold and Crimson Legion -before deserting, obviously,” Sathariel said.

“Ah?”

“One of us explained what had happened; he used to be a low-ranking officer in the Legion. Do you remember that drink I told you about? The one they made us drink with every meal, to make us stronger? Well, as it turns out, it has another effect. Possibly an unintentional one, although with the Archdemons, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“You mean, it makes you…”

“Sterile,” Sathariel said, clenching his jaw. “Yes.”

Jackson’s eyes bugged out. He shook his head, trying to figure out what to say. Byron appeared, looking uncharacteristically soft, and suggested that there were no words for something like that. No word could undo that injustice, or remove that pain. So Jackson did the simple, obvious thing instead, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Seth. It’s horrible what they did to you.”

Sathariel nodded slowly.

“Do you… I don’t know, do you want to do something?” Jackson said. “To clear your mind. We could go drinking. Or, uh, we could go riding. Let’s not do both, though.”

His friend chuckled, which felt like a victory for Jackson. 

“Aye, let’s do the former,” he said. “The Elves have sold us some kind of Dryad wine. I don’t much like it, but it gets you drunk fast.”

“Sounds perfect.”

The Dryad wine was an acquired taste. It had a very faint bouquet, and a lingering aftertaste that Jackson compared to that of mint. It also had a strong alcoholic content, closer to whisky than wine, but obfuscated by its sweetness. Jackson and Sathariel were both drunk before they realized, and before the bottle they had opened was empty. The intoxication lasted a long time, and the hangover even longer. The headache and dry mouth was so terrible that both friends were useless for an entire day, and didn’t manage to get any sleep until late in the night. It was bad enough that Jackson vocally swore off Dryad wine for the rest of his existence, an opinion Sathariel shared. 

Jackson hoped that it would be sufficient to make Sathariel forget about the issue -which he himself had partially forgotten, in the haze of drunkenness. Byron told him otherwise.

“He is just as sterile as he was yesterday, Jack,” he said. “And just as sterile as he will be tomorrow. That man wanted children.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said somberly. “Yes, he did.” He took a deep breath, and added: “And I think… I want children too. In fact, I’m sure.”

The young man wasn’t certain at what point he had come to that realization. That desire had always been there, he suspected, but when exactly did he find out about it? There didn’t seem to have been a point where he came to that conclusion consciously, it was more of a slow progression, as if a seed buried in his mind had finally come to blossom when Alizana had told him of her wish. It didn’t matter anyway, Jackson thought. What mattered was that he wanted children, and he knew it. And if those children were Alizana’s, it would be the cherry on top.

Getting drunk had managed to prevent Sathariel from falling into depression. To ensure that he didn’t relapse, Jackson suggested hard work, the kind that kept one’s mind too busy for dark thoughts. There was certainly no shortage of it in the Vertrisian Forest, and in the rest of the alliance. In addition to helping put their minds to something, it also helped keep them warm throughout the cold season.

Yes, there was a lot of work to be done. For instance, while all military activity had essentially ceased, banditry hadn’t. It had in fact increased somewhat, a consequence of the war, and the misery and the destruction it had brought. Several allied villages west of Vertrisia were being harassed by some particularly violent bandits on horses. They were in fact the mercenaries employed by the late Namtar, who had fled the battle of Baluq, and had taken to raiding as a new way of making a living. Dealing with them proved a headache almost as bad as the one brought by Dryad wine. The issue was only solved at the end of winter, after Sathariel, using the spying ways he now excelled at, identified their leader, who was then killed in a Hellhound ambush along with many of his men. The rest scattered, having decided the villages under the Hellhounds’ protection were not good targets. This whole affair had the positive effect of deterring most other groups of bandits, though some still tried their luck.

In their shared quality of strategist, Jackson and Byron also dedicated a lot of their time to preparing for the spring, when hostilities would begin again. Many hours were spent hunched over maps, trying to figure out both their next move and their enemies’. The Southern Alliance, as it was now being called, represented roughly a quarter of the Southern Marches, including virtually all of the southern coast. Their position, while considerably better than it had been before the battle of Baluq, was still not exactly comfortable. The army they now commanded, including the mercenaries, was still not sufficient to face the Hexacracy’s full numbers, or even the Empire’s, to say nothing of both simultaneously. It was thankful the two powers had been more interested in fighting each other thus far; had they focused their efforts on the Southern Alliance, the war would have gone in a very different direction. And, as Byron pointed out, things were bound to change after Baluq.

To Jackson, this made the possibility of a peace -and perhaps more- between the Southern Alliance and the Eastern Empire that much more desirable. Unfortunately, he had yet to hear back from David -or Gawain, as was his alias in this world. Jackson tried to remain optimistic; communications, like everything else, had naturally been slowed by the cold season. He continued to think such a peace was possible, for the same reasons he had given David back in Vrittion. But maybe simply sending David wasn’t enough to begin negotiations? Should Jackson maybe send a direct message to the Emperor? Jackson knew nothing of the customs and traditions of the Empire. Uncertain of what to do, he decided to simply wait.

Both Jackson, Byron, and Sathariel also spent a lot of time assessing the equipment situation. Atvello’s patronage had allowed them to obtain a lot of armors and shields, which had been very useful at Baluq. Most warriors, be them Hellhounds, Humans, or Demons, now had their own suit of armor, shield, and -except for the Hellhounds, who still favored their claws- weapon. The quality was far from uniform, however. Some of the equipment had been recovered on the battlefield, and it showed. Still, overall, this was one aspect in which the Alliance’s army could face its enemies on equal footing. 

One of the main downsides was that they continued to lack any siege weapons. Byron continued to try and acquire some, but the war had led to a scarcity of skilled engineers: there had never been many in the Southern Marches, and they were now highly sought after by both the Empire and the Hexacracy -each of whom could pay more than the Southern Alliance. As to Byron’s own knowledge of such weapons, it was purely theoretical. West Point had not included a “build your own onager” class in its curriculum. The only such weapons he roughly knew how to create were battering rams, and those were useless as Byron didn’t plan on attacking any fortified locations.

As to the firearms, they had more than proven their efficacy at Baluq, but that efficacy had come at a price. A little under a quarter of all the ammunition available had been fired on the battlefield. Bonnie alone had consumed half of her sniper rifle’s clip, though it had been necessary to kill Namtar in view of his men; that tactic had been a gamble, but it had paid off handsomely. The riflemen’s accuracy had not been especially good, but that thankfully hadn’t mattered much as Namtar’s heavy cavalry had been tightly packed. The rifles had laid waste in their ranks, causing fear and confusion as expected. It was also a good thing that many of them fled, saving some ammunition. Still, as efficient as they had been, Jackson and Byron continued their policy of only using them in very few select circumstances so as to make them last. That meant denying their use for hunters or for the warriors assigned to the defense of Allied towns. Bullets were simply too precious for that.

Additionally, Byron was worried that some people -including possible spies from the other two powers- might get too interested in these weapons and attempt to steal them. Thus, every single one of them was kept under lock and key in special chests located in several storage huts, and an inventory log was made regularly to ensure not a single bullet had gone missing.

“Do you think we might be able to produce more bullets?” Jackson asked Byron as they made one such log. “Maybe the smiths could find a proper alloy.”

“I doubt it. These are made with specific metals, copper and lead mostly. We have no idea if they even have lead in this world. A bullet made out of any other kind of material may not work right, and might even damage the rifle when shot. And as for the gunpowder and the primer, we can just forget about it. It is simply too advanced for their chemical knowledge. They barely even know how to make fireworks, how will they know how to synthesize nitroglycerin or antimony sulfide?”

“We could teach them?”

“Do you know how to make them?” Byron asked pointedly.

“I kinda assumed you did, but I guess not.”

Jackson was set to abandon the idea right there, but he suddenly had another thought as he noticed several bottles of Dryad wine in the storage hut. “There might be other things we could make. Things that wouldn’t be too complicated.”

Byron followed his gaze. “Hmmm. Maybe. That could also be dangerous.”

“As dangerous as giving automatic firearms to a bunch of horsemen who barely know how to use them?”

The veteran tutted, as reluctant as ever to admit Jackson had made a good point.

The two of them began working on a crafting recipe for the new weapon they had in mind. It took them many very careful tries in a controlled environment and over the course of quite a few days to come up with something satisfactory, mostly because Byron, ever the perfectionist, wanted to improve every possible aspect of the weapon, starting with its safety.

Finally, after three months of cold, including one of freezing, winter was over. The length of the day left no doubt: spring had come once again. Jackson initially saw no difference, as the early days of spring were still rather cold, and rain continued to fall every other day. In fact, in the first week of spring, it rained so much over the course of three days that the Vertrisian river overflowed once again. This time, however, no huts were destroyed.

All the same, there was a palpable relief in all the tribes. Winter had passed. Sadly, it had left some tragedy in its wake. Several Humans and Demons had lost their lives to the cold, and the diseases it brought; Hellhounds, however, had proven resistant to both -though they still hated the former. Food had not been lacking, as was feared, but there had been a few close calls. At some point, a tribe discovered that some of their food had been improperly stocked and had gone bad, causing some food poisoning. Other tribes had managed to spare some of their supplies to make up for the loss. Another tribe’s granary had been attacked by a bear and her two cubs; the mother was killed by hunters, but the two cubs fled. This event led to the creation of a surrounding wall around several camps, along with the installation of traps in addition to those used for hunting. A third tribe suspected that they had a food thief, but it could never be confirmed as their supplies had not been properly inventoried.

Still, the cold season was over, and the spring was there. That mere fact brought such joy among the Vertrisian Forest that several tribes organized an impromptu feast in celebration. Byron tried to discourage such initiatives: winter might have been over, but it would still be some time before food supplies could be replenished. In addition, there were now many children -over five hundred- to feed. Most tribe chieftains agreed, and decided to delay those celebrations until they could be sure that such feasts would not cause a shortage. Jackson understood the decision, but found it unfortunate. After the hardships they had been through, a little party might have done a lot of good for morale. Especially since there would soon be another winter.

“Is this going to be like this every year?” Jackson asked Byron. “We stock a lot of food, and we basically pray that it will be enough and that nothing bad is going to happen?”

“Essentially, yes,” Byron said. “That’s how it’s been for most of history. In fact, that’s the reason many cultures have gods dedicated to agriculture, and others who embody winter. Facing the hardships of nature, what could a peasant do other than pray?”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing we’ve got ourselves a priestess, then. And an active one, too.”

Indeed, Tezrian had been most diligent through the winter, apparently unhindered by the cold winds and colder rains. She had spent most of the cold season preaching the virtues of what she called the Purest Fire. Initially, her sermons had very few listeners, and what little audience she had was mostly motivated by idle curiosity. But as the winter grew colder, and the fires around which she preached only got warmer, people became more invested. It wasn’t just the physical warmth she offered that attracted them either. Her sermons seemed to warm their hearts as well, especially the Hellhounds’. Tezrian spoke of freedom and strife, which resonated with them.

“The Purest Flame is not to be found in a fine castle’s hearth,” she said. “It does not burn in the Armilusians priests’ heart as they preach obedience. No lord or king can master the Purest Flame, nor can any merchant barter it. The Purest Flame is wild like the forest. The Purest Flame is free like its animals. It is sparked within us when we are born into this world, free of any constraints. It continues to burn within us all through our life. Its flames become brighter when we carve our own way. You feel it roar when you refuse to suborn yourselves to any yoke imposed upon us. The Emperors and Archdemons of this world seek to extinguish it among their subjects, but the Purest Flame cannot be tamed.”

The initial curiosity gave way to a genuine interest, and by the end of winter that interest had become a passion. Jackson, who had decided to oversee several of those sermons to gauge Tezrian -and also to make sure she didn’t reveal anything about him that could cause trouble-, soon became witness to a rare phenomenon: the birth of a religion. It was far less  formal than older, more established religions like the ones Jackson had seen in Atvello -especially the Imperial Church-, and a lot less organized, but that was part of what attracted many of its believers, particularly Hellhounds. Indeed, that lack of formality and organization meant that there was no hierarchy: Tezrian was its first priestess, but eventually others chose to bear the title as well who were not subordinate to her. This meshed quite well with the Hellhound culture and morals. In addition, it was a syncretic religion, which included in its beliefs and rituals the ancestor cult the Hellhounds had been practicing so far.

But perhaps its most attractive -and most surprising- aspect was that it was a religion without gods. There was the Purest Flame, of course, but it was more of a concept than a deity; it represented both an ideal the believers longed for, and their desire for freedom, considered a natural part of their being. There were the ancestors, as well, but they were not revered as gods, merely as people to be honored less they be forgotten. 

This aspect the Hellhounds found particularly interesting. Many of them had previously been forced to adhere to the Cult of the Armilus (which was in many ways the Hexacracy’s state religion), and to worship its divinity, the Armilus, an almighty god that demanded unquestioning submission and obedience. This godless religion was a breath of fresh air after that.

The religion had grown over the course of the winter. Not just in terms of believers, but also in form. It had developed its own tenets and rituals, which had become more elaborate and more precise with time. As spring rolled by, the tribes counted some seven hundred believers, and three dozen priests and priestesses (mostly the latter) regularly traveled between camps to spread their beliefs. It even had a name by then: trinitarism. Jackson wasn’t sure who had coined the name, or when the number three had become key to the religion. Said number and its purported importance had been inherited from the aforementioned ancestors’ cult, and its origins were unclear. Some thought it was because the number was considered lucky by many tribes; litters of three children were thought to have an important destiny. Others believed it had to do with the emphasis the ancestor’s cult placed on three things: the past, the present, and the future. The past had to be remembered, the present had to be lived, and the future had to be shaped –carved, the believers now said.

Outside the forest, this newly-created set of beliefs was met with more skepticism, and in rare occasions with hostility. The inhabitants of the Southern Marches, in their vast majority, already had their own religions. If some were mostly indifferent to trinitarism -with a rare few trying to incorporate it into their already existent beliefs-, others, notably the Imperial Cult, took offense to the new religion and its tenets. Members of the Cult’s clergy proved unreceptive of a system of beliefs created by foreign creatures and which preached disobedience to authority figures both material and immaterial, in clear opposition to what they themselves taught their faithful followers. Jackson was thankful the Inquisition had no commanderies in the lands of the Southern Alliance.

This raised another issue, one Byron had suspected would become problematic in a while. The Divine Church of the Enlightened Order was quite present in the Southern Marches, though mostly in the biggest towns, and its allegiance to the Eastern Empire was self-evident. Believers and members of its clergy present in Allied towns had so far been accepting of the Rebellion and the alliance they had offered, but Byron and several war chiefs believed that acceptance to only be temporary. The Empire would continue its march south, and one day reach the outskirts of those Allied towns. On that day, they believed, members of the Imperial Cult would switch loyalties and swear fealty to the Emperor. The only reason they had yet to do so was mere convenience: the Eastern Empire was in no position to render them assistance, unlike the Southern Alliance. This wasn’t helped by the fact that the older population still remembered the time when the Southern Marches were still the South, and many longed for those good old days.

But that was an issue for later, like many others including the Eastern Empire itself. Alizana, Jackson, Byron, Sathariel, and the rest of the Rebellion’s leadership had more pressing concerns, now that the war was about to resume, especially now that the Hexacracy -or was it the Heptacracy now?- most likely considered the Rebellion a serious threat. Jackson suggested being proactive rather than wait for the Archdemons to make the first move, and Byron agreed. Sathariel proposed to resume the raids on the enemy’s logistics; not just their caravans, but also their granaries and their warehouses. Of course, that implied knowing where those would be.

“You mean you’re gonna infiltrate their bases again?” Jackson said. “That’s pretty risky, Seth. They’re probably on to you by now.”

Sathariel had a clever smile. “I’m not planning on doing it myself.”

The young Demon went on to reveal that, over the winter, he had been recruiting about twenty people and trained them to do what he had been doing. They were almost all deserters of the Hexacrat army like him; the majority were in fact some of those who had been expecting children, only to find out that the very possibility had been denied to them by their former masters. Obviously, those who like Nadikel had been branded could not be used for that purpose. By the time spring came by, Sathariel now had his own spy ring. They were trained to infiltrate military bases, castles, or even villages in Marches occupied by or loyal to the Hexacracy, in order to gather intelligence or spread misinformation. All of them had been made well aware of the fact that it was a dangerous game, and that, if caught, a quick death would probably not be in the cards for them. Few were deterred.

Jackson and Alizana both warmly approved of that initiative. They had been chafing for a while about the fact that the Rebellion relied almost exclusively on the Vertrisian Elves for intelligence. Jackson suggested Alizana rewarded Sathariel with a kiss. The young Demon spluttered that a reward was unnecessary, that he hadn’t asked to be rewarded like that, and that- Alizana’s lips drowned the rest.

“Wow, and I thought you were red before,” Jackson said.

“Shut up,” Sathariel mumbled.

One of the spies’ first assignments, aside from finding out which places to raid, was to finally figure out who was behind those strange Hellhound attacks in the northern Marches. This had been a worry to several tribes’ chieftains. Alizana in particular seemed outright anxious to find out these strange Hellhounds’ identity. Jackson had noticed that, every time news of those attacks were brought to her, she acted more nervous. His intuition told him Alizana already had some suspicions as to who they were.

The spies came back to make their report a little over a month later. They had been able to track these elusive Hellhounds, and even witness one of their attacks on yet another village. It appeared they mostly -but maybe not exclusively- targeted Marches who had sided or been conquered by the Hexacracy. Their reports on the attack confirmed once again the rumors: these Hellhounds were brutal, killing men, women, and even some of the children in cold blood and indiscriminately, then looting and burning their homes. Moreover, they had identified their leader, and had observed her enough to give a good description of her. It was a Hellhound, smaller than most of her kind yet taller than most Humans and Demons, with quite a few scars on her arms and her neck, and a long, slim one on her right mandible; her left ear had a noticeable chip. Jackson’s intuition was confirmed when he saw Alizana react to that description.

“That’s my sister,” she said hoarsely. “Neasa is still alive.”

Jackson gawked at her. For a second, he thought he had discerned fear in his lover’s voice.

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