The Pulver Chronicles – 33. To Be The Bad Man

Jackson had never seen Alizana look so nervous before; it was worrying. She kept pacing around in her hut. Her tail flailed around like it was chasing off imaginary flies. One of her clawed fingers was twitching, tapping against her leg, and she was scratching the claws of her other paw. Additionally, she had asked four times if everything was ready. Four times, Jackson had assured that, yes, everything was ready, and invited her to sit down and eat something. She had declined, which Jackson had also found worrying. Alizana, like all Hellhounds, loved to eat, and in great quantities. Jackson exchanged a look with Sathariel, who was also present, working on a reading assignment the former had given him the day before.

“Seriously, Liz,” Jackson said, “the way you’re acting, you’d swear she’s going to attack everyone the moment she arrives.”

Alizana licked her lips.

“She’s… not gonna do that, right?” Jackson asked.

“No, no, of course not,” she said. “She would never harm her own brethren, especially not her own sister. As bad as she is, she’s still one of us.”

“Her own brethren,” Sathariel said. “What about Demons? And Humans?”

She hesitated. “She won’t do anything in front of us.”

“Please don’t turn your back, then,” Jackson said. “But, seriously, if you don’t think she’s gonna do anything, why are you so worried?”

“I don’t know.” Alizana stopped pacing for a moment, and took a deep breath. “I think I’m afraid our talk will go poorly. Our goal today is to get her to join us; it’s the only way to get her under control.”

“The only way to make sure she won’t set the Marches afire, then douse the flames with blood,” Sathariel said.

“Right. This is why today is important. If our talks fail, she’ll be back out there, doing gods know what.”

Sathariel scratched one of his horns. “What does Byron think?”

“I told you,” Jackson said. “He thinks we can use her, that it’s better than letting her loose.”

“No, I meant: about the talks. Does he think it’s going to work?”

Byron appeared, as if summoned by the Demon’s question. “Honestly, if she is as bad as Alizana makes her out to be, then probably not. Monsters respond poorly to reason. However, we may be able to sway some of her followers.”

Jackson voiced the veteran’s thoughts.

“Hmph, I see,” Alizana said. “And what does he think would sway Neasa herself?”

“Oh, I can answer that one,” Jackson said. “Give her someone to kill and something to burn.”

“Well, we do have plenty of both,” Sathariel said.

“So the plan is to control her worst tendencies by letting her indulge in them?” Alizana said.

“Letting her indulge in them in small, controlled doses,” Jackson said. “That’s Byron’s idea, not mine.”

“Do you not agree, then?”

“No, not for the most part. But…” He glanced at Byron, and sighed. “Shit. He may have a point. That may be the only way to get her under control. I mean, he knows people like her, probably better than we do.”

“I suppose we have to try,” Alizana said with a sigh. “But I really don’t like this.”

“Not a big fan of the situation either, honey,” Jackson said. “Better than the alternative, though, like Byron said.”

His mate was about to reply, but was interrupted by noise outside. Jackson heard footsteps, shouts, exclamations, and hoofbeats.

“They’re here,” Sathariel said.

All three left the hut. The Neha camp was starting to look like a proper village by now. In addition to the fortifications that had been built around it, quite a few additional huts had been built to house the newcomers, and two gardens had also been added to grow several kinds of vegetables. The camp now stretched all the way to the river.

Its center, where the campfire had been lit in preparation for lunch, was quite animated all of a sudden. Two hunters posted along the wall on the lookout had spotted Hellhounds approaching, about two dozens of them. A Human placed the bronze grill over the fire. A Hellhound opened a barrel of wine and poured a few cups. Everyone else got busy one way or another.

After everything he had heard about her, Jackson had started to get a good mental picture of what Neasa looked like. This time, said mental picture was so accurate that he recognized her as soon as he saw her. Like Sathariel’s spies had said, she was indeed rather short for a Hellhound, though she was still taller than Jackson. She did have quite a few scars, particularly noticeable on her arms as she wore a studded leather cuirass with no sleeves, and her left ear was missing its tip; a long and thin scar ran along the right side of her jaw, reaching down to her neck. Jackson could also tell at a glance that she was indeed Alizana’s sister: her face looked a lot like hers, especially the cheekbones. She too had a strong jaw, as well as a short nose. 

Yet, in spite of these similarities, Neasa and Alizana could not have looked any more different, at least to Jackson. Why this was exactly, he couldn’t say. Perhaps the light in her orange eyes seemed darker. Perhaps it was that strange tension in her jaw. Perhaps it was the fact that a smaller scar on the right side of her mouth made it look like she was permanently smirking, revealing a couple of her fangs. Or perhaps it was just Jackson’s imagination, biased by the stories he’d heard.

In addition to her cuirass, she was wearing pants made out of animal hide, with a dark brown boiled leather belt. Jackson was a little surprised at first to see her wearing a pendant and two bracelets: Hellhounds, as a whole, cared little for jewelry. Looking closer, however, he realized those were not jewelry. They were trophies. The bracelets were in fact teeth mounted on a piece of string, and the pendant was made with the cracked tips of two Demons’ horns -from their colors, Jackson could tell they came from two different individuals.

Neasa was accompanied by a total of twenty-one Hellhounds, each of whom looked like they were no stranger to war. All of them also had scars, and several exhibited trophies similar to their chieftain’s. Touches of red paint colored their faces, looking like the war paint Jackson had seen on Indians in old western movies. They arrived at the camp’s center. Everyone around them had gotten quiet. Neasa stood before Alizana, her eyes planted in hers, her paws behind her back. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. To Jackson, who was standing to the right of Alizana, the word “tense” didn’t even begin to describe the atmosphere, and neither did the word “cold”.

“Neasa,” Alizana finally said. She had pronounced the name with some difficulty, as if she hadn’t said in a while.

“Alizana,” Neasa said. Her tone was uninvolved, as if she was greeting some acquaintance rather than her own sister.

Great, Jackson said to himself. At least they said something. But just as he thought that, the two sisters went back to being silent. From her body language, Jackson believed Alizana was having second thoughts. After a few very uncomfortable moments, Jackson decided to give his mate a little nudge. The gesture was meant to be subtle, but Neasa’s eyes shifted to him for a second. He wasn’t sure whether she had caught it, though, as the very next second she was back to staring at Alizana. The latter cleared her throat, and spoke again:

“I welcome you among my tribe.”

One of her tribemates passed her two cups of wine. Alizana gave one to her sister, then raised her own for a toast.

“Your tribe?” Neasa said, a half-smile appearing on her face, stretching the scar. “Alright. We thank you for your hospitality.”

She brought her cup against Alizana’s, then both drank.

This simple ritual was the traditional way of officially greeting guests into the tribes, signifying that said guests now enjoyed the tribe’s hospitality and protection. Jackson had witnessed it a couple of times. It was usually a much warmer and cheerier affair; from the way everyone was acting this one, one would have thought this was the prelude to a funeral. Things got better, however, when Neasa finished her cup and gestured to her people. The Hellhounds accompanying her became visibly less standoffish, and went to mingle with the rest of the tribe. Rather, with the rest of the Hellhounds. Words of greeting were exchanged, as well as food and drinks.

Soon, everyone was seated around the fire, and vegetables and slabs of meat were placed on the grill. A Human and a Demon painted the meat with sauce using brushes. Jackson and Sathariel sat next to Alizana, while her sister sat on the other side of the fire, facing her. They didn’t speak to each other again during the meal, which Jackson decided was probably a good thing: best to wait until everybody is fed to talk again, it could only improve everyone’s mood. Especially since Jackson had prepared his homemade barbecue sauce for this meal. It had been very popular the first time Jackson had introduced it to the tribes, and he had often been asked to make it again. Unfortunately, the relative scarcity of ingredients, in particular the wild tomatoes gathered by the Vertrisian Elves, led to the decision to only have it for special occasions -the election of a new chieftain, an important victory, the end of winter…

After sitting down, Neasa raised her paw above her shoulder, and made a gesture. A few people around the fire got confused as to who she was signaling to, until several Humans and Demons, seven in total, came out of the woods and entered the camp.

“Are they your tribemates?” Alizana said.

“No,” Neasa said without explaining further.

They went to sit away from the fire and the congregation, while one, a young Human looking to be in his late teens, went to sit next to Neasa. He was about five feet six or seven and very scrawny, making Neasa look like a giantess in comparison. He had short brown hair, with a few grays, dark green eyes, and his pale skin had quite a few dirt stains. With his tattered, dirty clothes, he looked like one of the beggars Jackson used to see along the docks of Atvello. He simply sat there, his head bowed, and said nothing, looked at nobody. An uncomfortable feeling twisted Jackson’s stomach in knots as he looked at him. Who was he? What was he? A refugee? Some orphan adopted into the tribe?

The others seemed cut from the same cloth. They too were sitting down in silence. Some of Neasa’s Hellhounds eventually passed them some food, but only after they themselves had been served.

A few Hellhounds engaged in conversation as the meal started. First, they talked about the food, as quite a few of the guests were curious about what was served to them. Then, they went on to talk about the Vertrisian Forest, and what game could be hunted there. It was a start, Jackson felt. Alizana and her sister, however, remained quiet. The former was now staring alternatively between Neasa and the boy at her side. Her eyebrows jumped up when she saw her sister eat a rib, then give the bone to the boy. The latter gnawed at it with obvious hunger, cleaning the last bits of meat off it.

“What is your name?” Alizana asked him.

The boy blanched and glanced at her, looking like a small animal sensing a bigger predator approaching. He then gave Neasa a side look, and lowered his gaze again.

“His name is Mikkon,” Neasa said.

“Hi Mikkon,” Jackson said. “I’m Jackson.”

The boy didn’t react. Jackson and Alizana exchanged a glance.

“Don’t you want to eat something else?” Alizana said. “You look hungry. Just grab something off the grill.”

“He’s fine,” Neasa said, her voice growing colder.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Jackson thought-said to Byron.

“I think you know exactly what’s going on,” the veteran said.

Jackson certainly had a good guess, between the way Mikkon was acting, his appearance, and the fact that he and the others like him were only fed the Hellhounds’ scraps. Furthermore, the young man had not failed to notice how Mikkon winced every time Neasa made a brisk move, usually to grab more food off the grill. And, unless his eyes were deceiving him, the boy had a few bruises on his body, mostly hidden by his clothes. All of this put together painted a very disquieting picture.

“Christ. Don’t tell me they have slaves,” Jackson thought-said.

Byron didn’t answer, but it was clear that this was also his conclusion. And, looking at Alizana and Sathariel, they certainly thought along the same lines. All three of them were relatively quiet through the whole meal, only breaking the silence to ask for more food or wine. Jackson was relieved when Alizana stood up at the end, and invited her sister to the council hut. Though the ensuing conversation was expected to be tense, at least it would be better than uncomfortable silence.

More foodstuffs were served at the council hut’s table, but the drinks consisted only of water and juice made from a fruit Jackson had yet to identify, with an acidic taste. This was an unspoken rule among tribe and war chiefs: no alcohol during the debates. It had been decided after a fight broke out between two drunken tribe chieftains, over the sharing of a particular hunting ground. Sathariel poured everyone a cup, but neither Neasa nor Alizana touched theirs. As they sat on the floor around the table, they once again engaged in their staring contest. Mikkon, who was also present, made a move to grab his cup, but was discouraged by a glare from Neasa.

“You wanted to talk,” Neasa said. “So talk.”

Alizana cleared her throat and, after one last glance at Mikkon, said: “On behalf of our tribe chieftains, I would like to invite you and your people to join us here in the Vertrisian Forest, to fight the Hexacracy alongside us.”

That little speech had been rehearsed. It wasn’t every day that Alizana was so formal; no doubt she had decided not to use her own words, worried that they would be somewhat less polite. She had hesitated ever so slightly at the word “invite”, Jackson had noticed. Neasa picked up her cup, smelled it, and drank it. Mikkon drank as well a few seconds after her.

“We already are fighting the Hexacracy,” she said.

The laconic answer left Alizana speechless for a second.

“So I’ve heard,” she said with pursed lips. “We are fighting as well. It only makes sense for us to join our efforts; together, we’ll be stronger.”

“Stronger?” Neasa said. “How much stronger can you be, fighting the Hexacrats from the safety of your trees? We are actually waging war right on their territory.”

“Pretty damn strong,” Jackson said, picked by her barely disguised disdain. “We did kill one of the Archdemons.”

Neasa considered him as if it was the first time she was seeing him. “So it’s true, then. I’ve heard the Hexacracy had lost at Baluq, but an Archdemon truly died there?”

“Oh yeah. Namtar. We got two of his armies, too. Doubt you can say the same.”

Sathariel bit his lip, visibly worried by the turn the conversation was taking -and within the first few minutes, too.

“Oh, we’ve had our own successes,” Neasa said. “Not the sort bards sing about, but then we little care for that.”

So I guess passive aggression is her default mode, Jackson thought, biting his lips to avoid taking the bait.

“What successes would those be?” Alizana asked, crossing his arms. “Attacking villages? Killing peasants? We actually fight the Hexacracy’s armies.”

“So do we,” Neasa retorted. “We attack their servants, we loot their food, we destroy their ability to continue the war. What’s more, we give the Southrons a good reason not to lick our enemy’s boots.”

“More like you go for the low-hanging fruit,” Jackson muttered under his breath.

By the way her ears moved, Neasa had definitely heard that, but ignored it.

“If you joined us,” Alizana said, “you could do so much more for our people. You’ve heard about Baluq, about Atvello. That is the sort of thing we can accomplish. And with your help, we too can do more.”

Once again, the speech was rehearsed, but this time Alizana actually sounded like she believed what she was saying.

“Atvello?” Neasa said. “Why should we care for this place? Why should we care for any Human or Demon settlement? Our people should fight for themselves. When have Humans and Demons fought for us?”

“These two have,” Alizana said, placing her paws on Sathariel’s and Jackson’s shoulders. “Both of them have risked their lives for us numerous times. They’re the reason we have won all of our battles so far.”

“You mean they’re the reason you fought those battles to begin with. They’re the reason many of our sisters have died fighting for someone else.”

“They fought for us! They fought for us all. We stand as one. The Humans, Demons, and Elves living in the Southern Marches are fighting the Hexacracy just as much as we are.”

“That is not what I saw,” Neasa said. “What I saw was Humans and Demons bowing before the Archdemons, offering their arms and their food to help their invasion.”

“They were probably told to bow or they’d all be killed,” Jackson said. “Doesn’t surprise me they chose the first option.”

“We too were offered such a choice once,” Neasa retorted with a contemptuous glare, “and we chose to fight even if it meant death.”

“Which, for many of our sisters, it did,” Alizana said. Her facial expression grew colder, as it often did when she reminisced about the Dusk Steppe.

“You are trained warriors,” Jackson said. “Those are just peasants.”

“And so what?” Neasa said. “This is war. If they are not strong enough to defend themselves, then it’s only natural that they become prey.”

“Seriously, natural selection?” the young man scoffed. “They’re weak, so they deserve to be killed? What if I went to loot your camp, steal all your food, and burn your huts, would you feel the same way?”

“You’re welcome to try,” she said calmly.

Sathariel made a discrete gesture at Jackson, intimating him to calm down. He then decided to speak up:

“If you want to truly hurt the Hexacracy, why not strike a better target? We are currently going after their armies’ officers, hoping to ambush them. From what I’ve been told, that is the sort of thing you’d do well. Those captains and lieutenants are a bigger threat to your people -to us all. And surely they would give you a better fight than the peasantry.”

To Jackson’s surprise, that argument seemed to work on Neasa, although he had an inkling it would have worked even better had it been made by a Hellhound. She placed a paw on her hip and considered Sathariel, before reporting her attention to her sister.

“Is this why you invited me?” she said. “You needed someone to do the hard work?”

“We’ve been able to do the hard work by ourselves just fine so far,” Alizana retorted. “It’s like I said: together, we can do more. Together, we can better defend the cause of our people. I invited you because I know that, no matter our differences, no matter what I think of you and you of me, you’ll do what’s right for our sistren.”

That too scored a point with Neasa, although she hid it well. In fact, had Byron not pointed out the subtle changes in her attitude, Jackson would have missed them.

“I’ve always done right by our people,” she said. “That is why I started the Rebellion.”

“You started the Rebellion?” Alizana said, the corners of her mouth twitching.

“I killed the general leading us, and his lieutenant. I spurred us on, and led us to rise against our masters. We were all talking about it, but no one was willing to make the first move. So I did.”

“That general was killed in a meeting with our tribe chieftains. You were not present.”

“I wasn’t invited, but I was present. That idiotic general could not distinguish one Hellhound from another, so it was easy to replace one of our chieftains. I bet he still didn’t recognize me when my claws cut into his throat.”

It was obvious Alizana was skeptical of her sister’s version of the story. Sathariel decided to push past this topic and bring the conversation back on track, before an argument sparked.

“Well, then,” he said. “You can use those claws to help the Hellhound Rebellion again. So how about it? Will you join your people in Vertrisia?”

Neasa suddenly moved away from the table, and Mikkon shivered. “Maybe. If I do, I have conditions.”

“Of course you do,” Alizana mumbled.

“First of all, if I am to go after those officers, it’ll be on my own terms. You tell me where to find them, I’ll deal with them as I see fit.”

“Actually, we would prefer it if you managed to capture them alive-” Sathariel started to say.

Neasa laughed. “Is this how you plan to win this war? By sparing your enemies?” The laughter died immediately. “No. I’ll treat them the way they deserve to be treated. I always give my enemies their just desserts.”

She gave Mikkon a side-glance.

“Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth, is that it?” Jackson said.

“I never thought I would agree with an Imperial, but yes, that is a good way of putting it.”

“I’m not an Imperial.”

“No? You look like one. What are you, then? You don’t sound like a Southron.”

“Capturing them alive means we can ransom them,” Alizana said, cutting that particular debate short. “Ransoming them means the Hexacracy loses money. Losing money means they can’t keep the war going on for so long. It’s a simple calculation.”

“Here’s a simpler one: the more of their soldiers we kill, the less of our warriors they can take,” Neasa said. “That’s my first condition: any Hexacrat I’ll find, I’ll kill.”

“You don’t capture anyone?” Jackson asked angrily. “What about him?” He pointed at Mikkon. “Don’t tell me he’s a rescue!”

“Yes, Neasa,” Alizana said. “Tell us about him. What is he? Where does he come from?”

“In a way, he is a rescue,” Neasa said, smiling in a way that made Jackson deeply uncomfortable. “I rescued him from certain death.”

“You mean you decided not to kill him,” Alizana said, her nose and her lips twitching as she just about repressed a snarl.

“I did, even though I had an excellent reason to do so. Didn’t I, Mikkon?”

“Yes,” the boy said. His voice cracked, seemingly from lack of use. To Jackson’s surprise, there was no fear in it. There was no warmth, either. It just sounded empty.

“What did he do?” Sathariel asked, looking as though he would prefer not to know the answer.

“What did you do, Mikkon?” Neasa said.

“Treason,” he said.

“Treason, right.” Neasa nodded. “You see, he and his parents made us an offer: they would trade their food to us, and in return gain our protection. I agreed to their offer, and from then on I would regularly send some of my warriors to their village, to deal with any bandit or Hexacrat that might come their way. And, regularly, I and the rest of my tribe would go into the village to collect what was due.”

Her expression grew colder. “Then, one day, as we went to the village, we noticed it was empty. The people were gone, the fields were bare, the granary was empty. Nothing had been burnt or destroyed, however. There hadn’t been an attack or any disaster: the villagers had left voluntarily. They left us a little present, however: the head of one of my warriors, impaled on a spike.” Her fangs appeared as she grinned darkly. “By the time I recovered it, it had been half-eaten by crows. As to the rest of her body, I could never find it. Nor could I offer her a burial, as me and my warriors were soon attacked.

“You see, as it turned out, the kind villagers had no intention of honoring our agreement. Soon after it was made, they made contact with the Hexacracy. They knew when we would come back next, and decided to use that as an opportunity to ambush us. Eighty or so soldiers were waiting for us. They thought it would suffice, didn’t they, Mikkon?”

Mikkon nodded mechanically.

“The Hexacracy had learned to fear us, but they still hadn’t learned not to underestimate us. They thought outnumbering us two to one would be enough. It wasn’t. Nine of my sisters died that day, but in the end, we killed every single fucking Hexacrat bastard. The only two survivors were the villagers who had served as guides and showed the Hexacrats where to hide in wait. We captured them. Made them tell us where the rest of their people were. The Hexacracy had relocated them to another village. I decided I wanted justice for my fallen sisters.

“Under the cover of the night, we attacked those traitors, showed them what a real ambush looked like. To some we gave a quick death. For the others… we had questions. The main one was: what had happened to the rest of the warriors I had sent as protectors? Mikkon and his parents knew the answer to that one. What was it, Mikkon?”

“Sold,” Mikkon said.

“Sold,” Neasa repeated, her voice but a rumble in her throat. “Sold like fucking livestock. Sent away to be slaves. Forced to be mere possessions for the Hexacrats. When my sisters heard this, they wished more than anything to tear the sellers apart. Skin them living, piece by piece. They would have made it last hours, days maybe. Tempting as it was, I had a better idea. Those men and women owed us lives, not deaths: they had sold our sisters, not killed them. As I said, I always give my enemies their just desserts.”

Jackson couldn’t help but be skeptical of that story. While he didn’t doubt it had happened, something told him it hadn’t happened exactly how Neasa said. Byron suggested that this village had not been so much a willing ally and more of a vassal paying tribute in exchange for “protection”. If that were true, then it was very possible the village had turned to the Hexacracy out of desperation, to be protected from their protectors.

“So you enslaved them in turn,” Alizana said. The way her claws twitched and her breath hitched betrayed her growing anger, no matter how hard she tried to suppress it.

“They condemned my sisters to a life of servitude. It is only just that they suffer the same.”

“You and I have wildly different definitions of “just”,” Jackson said.

“Have we? What happened to the prisoners you made that you couldn’t ransom? I’ve heard you sent them to the fields to use as laborers.”

“There’s a difference,” the young man retorted, in spite of the pinch in his stomach which felt uncomfortably like the sting of hypocrisy. “We intend to free them after the war is over.”

Neasa scoffed.

“It’s true,” Alizana said. “This isn’t slavery, and neither is it punishment. This is simply to deprive the enemy of troops for the duration of the war. These prisoners are housed and clothed, even through the winter. They are fed, and not scraps. Once the war is over, they’ll be free to go back to their homes.”

“How very… sensitive of you.”

“This war will not be won by gratuitous cruelty,” Alizana insisted, incensed by the thinly-veiled mockery.

“Tell that to our enemies. Do you think to win the war by showering them with niceties when they offer nothing but hatred, pain, and death? Or by recruiting them and making them your tribemates?”

The last part she had spat out, pointing a claw at Jackson and Sathariel.

“They are not our enemies, for fuck’s sake!” Alizana shouted back.

“Or by curtsying to the Empire?” Neasa continued, ignoring the retort. “We should be fighting them, not talking peace with them.”

Jackson’s eyebrows jumped up. How did she know about that? The war chiefs had agreed to keep quiet about it until a favorable response was received from the Eastern Empire. Did Neasa have eyes and ears in the war council? No… It was more likely she had a friend there. And Jackson had an idea who it could be. 

Once again, Sathariel intervened to interrupt what could turn into a hours-long dispute -or a fight: 

“All right, we’ve heard your first condition. I’m assuming there is another.”

“There is. If my tribe is to join your tribes, it will be as equals.”

“Of course,” Alizana said.

“That means I don’t dictate what you do in your tribe -or who you let in-” she glared at the Human and the Demon “and you don’t dictate what I do in mine.”

“You mean you want to keep your slaves,” her sister grumbled.

“I mean we want to keep our ways. It is our right. It is the right of every one of our tribes. Not even the chieftain of chieftains” she let out a little scoff “can dictate how we live. It is one of our most ancient rules.”

“It doesn’t apply to slavery! Have you lost your mind, Neasa?”

“If they didn’t want to be enslaved, they shouldn’t have enslaved others, much like how the Hexacracy shouldn’t have started this war if they didn’t want to be killed to the last man. But if it makes you feel any better, we don’t intend to have more. The ones we have satisfy our needs just fine.”

Do I even want to know what that fucking means? Jackson thought, his lips twisting in contempt. Once again, one glance at Mikkon told him he probably already did know.

“Any other conditions?” Sathariel said. Despite the calm he manifested, Jackson could tell he too was getting upset, and anxious to see this meeting end.

“No,” Neasa said.

“And I’m guessing those conditions are non-negotiable.”

“That’s right.”

“I understand. In that case, I don’t think we have anything else to discuss. We’ll relay your demands to the chieftains and let you know their answer.”

“Fine.”

She turned on her heels and left without a goodbye, Mikkon right after her. Alizana hunched over the table and let out a big sigh.

“That could have gone better,” Jackson said.

“Believe me: with her, it could have gone a lot worse.”

“Yeah, I guess. At least no one was hurt.”

She slammed the table. “Fuck, I can’t believe her. Slaves! She owns slaves now! She lowered herself and her tribe to the level of the Hexacracy. I’m starting to think those rumors of cannibalism might be true after all.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her either,” Jackson said. “Oh God, and they feed their scraps to their slaves…”

Nausea struck his stomach like a fist, and he desisted from that line of thought immediately.

“And she expects us to look the other way!” Alizana went on, throwing her paws in the air. “She treats people as cattle -no, as fucking property!- and she wants us to turn our heads and say nothing?! I knew she was bad, but the war has made her worse. Hell, and she wants to take credit for having started our insurgency, when in truth she’s an affront to everything it stands for! We rebelled for freedom and for dignity. And here she is, with her slaves!”

All the anger she had bottled up throughout the meeting was coming out. Jackson reached out to her, his hands grabbing onto her shoulders to massage them. She blew air from her nose, then ran her paws over her face.

“Alright, so what now?” she said.

“Now, we do what I said,” Sathariel said. “We give her conditions to the chieftains, and they decide whether or not to agree with them.”

“I doubt they will,” Jackson said. “No way they’ll give two thumbs up to that kind of bullshit.”

“You’re right,” Alizana said, suddenly a bit calmer. “Even her most loyal supporters will not defend her on this one.” Surprisingly, she chuckled. “Ah! Neasa had always been the sort to push things too far, to demand more than what is offered; any limit she’d see as a challenge. This time, it may well turn against her.”

“Shit, let’s hope so. There’s no way in Hell I could see that poor guy Mikkon every day and pretend he’s just fine.”

“It’s the same for me. And I’m sure the other chieftains will feel the same way.”

“So they’ll either make her get rid of her slaves, or kick her out,” Jackson said.

“I believe so, yes. Let’s hope for the first one, or we’ll be back where we started: with Neasa roaming free, laying waste to the Southern Marches.”

“She said her conditions were non-negotiable,” Jackson pointed out.

“Humph. The Neasa I know is far from principled. Stubborn, pigheaded even, sure, but not principled. I’m sure if we offer something she wants more in trade, she’ll prove more amenable.”

“She does seem to want a good fight,” Sathariel said. “I tried that angle with her, and it seemed to work.”

“Yeah…” Jackson said. “Maybe we can promise to always put her tribe on the front line or something? Give her the best role in our battles? That’d kill two birds with one stone: she gets to scratch her itch, and we get some skilled warriors. I’m guessing she’s good at fighting, right?”

“She is,” Alizana said. “One of the best fighters I’ve ever seen. I’ve never seen her quite as happy as she is on the battlefield. Yes… Yes, I suppose we could use her appetite for war.”

She leaned away from the table with a sigh. “Heh. I may actually feel optimistic about this. That’s the first time I ever used that word in relation to my sister.”

Jackson laughed.

“Let’s not be too optimistic, though,” Sathariel said. “We don’t know for sure that she’ll agree to that. And we don’t know that a majority of the chieftains will side against her.”

“What?” Jackson said. “You think they’ll be okay with this shit?”

“I think we shouldn’t underestimate her. She may already have allies among the chieftains or the war chiefs. Have you noticed how she seemed to know about our dealing with the Eastern Empire?”

“Yeah, I did. I thought that was weird too.”

“Only a war chief would know about that,” Sathariel said.

“All right, but that’s just one ally,” Jackson said. “Neasa will need a lot more than that if she needs a majority.”

“That’s one ally that we know of,” Sathariel retorted. “She may have more, or be working to obtain more.”

“It’s got to be Culli, right? She acted like her biggest fan in that council.”

“Probably, but then again she wasn’t the only one to vote in favor of inviting her. We should keep an eye out anyway, watch what Culli does over the days leading up to the next chieftains’ council. See who she meets with, what she talks about… And whether she’s in contact with Neasa or her people. My intuition tells me she is doing the latter.”

“You’re talking about spying on her?” Alizana said. “I’ll not have you spy on my own people. Let alone a chieftain!”

“I understand that could be a problem, but are you not worried that Neasa might be making moves behind your back?”

“No. For all her flaws, Neasa is not the sort to whisper in dark corners, nor is she a backstabber. She’s honest, perhaps to a fault. In fact, she tends to react poorly when lied to.”

That doesn’t mean she’s not a liar herself, Jackson thought. He had had some experience with people like that, who chastised deception yet often engaged in it themselves. Mr Dorsett was one such person, harshly punishing Jackson whenever he lied, even though the man had no qualms lying to him, such as when he claimed that the mutt Jackson had one day brought home against his wishes had “ran away”.

“You know her better than we do,” Sathariel said. “What about Culli?”

“Same answer. We may butt heads on issues at almost every council and every vote, but that doesn’t make her some kind of manipulator.”

Sathariel crossed his arms and pushed his tongue against his cheek.

“What do you think, Jack?” Alizana said.

Jackson took a deep breath through the nose, weighing his words carefully.

“I think you’re a deeply honest person, Liz. Which is a good thing, but it means you also tend to assume most people are as honest as you are. You’re especially biased when it comes to other Hellhounds.”

“You think me naive?”

Her eyes reflected not anger, but worry.

“No… You just don’t want to think of your own people as liars and schemers. That’s not being naive. That just means you love your people. You see only the good in them.”

“I don’t see only the good in my sister,” she retorted.

“Yeah, maybe not, but for the others…”

A soft, weary sigh left Alizana’s lips as she glanced through the opened door.

“When they named me chieftain of chieftains, I promised myself I wouldn’t be that kind of leader,” she said.

“What kind of leader?” Jackson asked.

“The kind that distrusts their own people. It seemed to be the only kind of leader that existed in the Hexacracy. Lords kept a close watch on the commoners, and Archdemons on the lords. All worried that the others were plotting against them, and so they plotted in turn. In the end, the mistrust led to violence, in order to break insurgencies that only existed in the leaders’ paranoid minds. Peasants were flogged for supposedly harboring grain. Traders were hanged for supposedly lying on their benefits, and not paying taxes on them. Even soldiers were quartered for imagined disloyalty.”

“I don’t think that was just paranoia. That sounds more like they were abusing their power.”

“One fed into the other. Either way, there’s not much of a difference, especially for the subjects: their rulers still ruled through fear and strength. When I was named the chieftain of chieftains, I swore, to both my people and myself, that I would be a different kind of leader. I would earn my people’s trust, and trust them in turn. I would be honest with them, and in turn they would be honest with me.”

“And that’s exactly what you are,” Sathariel said. “Trustworthy and honest. You wouldn’t have remained in your position for so long if you weren’t. But the war has changed things, and now so will Neasa. You can’t afford to let her pull any tricks behind your back. You have to act.”

“By pulling some tricks myself, behind my sisters’ backs. No.” She shook her head. “This will not be me. I’ll not spy on my own people.”

“Well, technically, Neasa and her tribe are not part of your people yet,” Jackson said. “They’ve been invited, but they have not officially joined.”

“I won’t hide behind that kind of logic either,” Alizana flatly retorted. “And technically they are our guests. They must be respected, so must their privacy.”

Both Jackson and Sathariel were about to object, but she raised a paw. “Please. I don’t want to discuss this any further. Consider the matter closed.”

The firmness in her voice had a hint of weariness. It was that in particular that convinced the two friends to drop the subject. Jackson sighed, not particularly surprised that Alizana wouldn’t budge on this. That woman held onto her principles much like priests of the Imperial Cult held onto their faith: they represented the core of what she was. More than that, they were something that years of suffering under the Hexacracy’s boot could not take from her; they were proof that, no matter what, she alone determined what kind of person she was. Jackson had always admired that about her. He still admired it now, even though it could become a hindrance.

Sathariel kissed her on the cheek and left the hut. Jackson imitated him but, before he exited, Alizana told him:

“Can you please see if the bard is available? I’d like to hear some more of his poems.”

Alizana had regularly used Ardito’s services ever since the bard had settled among the tribes. Ardito had been popular with quite a few people, be they Hellhounds, Humans, or Demons, but Alizana was probably his most regular patron. She particularly enjoyed his poems, having long been an appreciator of poetry, though the opportunities to hear any had been scarce through most of her life. Jackson had noticed that she especially liked hearing poetry when she was tense or gloomy. In fact, Alizana had discussed with Ardito the creation of new poems telling the tale of some of her fallen comrades in addition to those he was already writing about her and Jackson, something the bard had agreed to wholeheartedly.

The bard was indeed available, sitting on a stump as he tuned one of his curious cord instruments, a long wooden object that looked something like a violin or a fiddle, but was played directly with the fingers. He was humming a song; from what little Jackson heard of it, it seemed to be a new one. Jackson was impressed by how many different songs, tales, and poems the bard had memorized and could sing or recite at the drop of a hat, an especially impressive feat considering the man barely knew his alphabet and rarely if ever wrote anything down. When prompted, Ardito jumped on his feet and, with his signature energy, went to meet with Alizana.

Jackson noticed the campfire built for lunch was still roaring, tended to by Tezrian, who was likely preparing for a rite later in the day. She was not often at the Neha camp these days, having begun to travel more since the beginning of spring. The Demon priestess did not appear to be using any wood or charcoal to fuel it, yet the flames almost seemed alive with energy. She stood before it, her hands raised so close the fire was licking their palms, her eyes staring at its core without blinking. This was something she did often: stand close enough to her flames that, by all rights, she should be burning, and looking into it as if she saw something fascinating. That Tezrian had the Talent was an open secret to Jackson, but he wasn’t quite sure what her abilities were. It was certain she was supernaturally resistant to fire, but what else could she do?

Without looking away from her flames, Tezrian made a gesture at Jackson, silently asking him to come closer. He did so.

“Do you get HBO?” Jackson asked. “Seriously, what do you see when you stare at that thing? Because it’s gotta be fascinating.”

“I see the fire,” she said.

“No shit, that’s what everyone sees. But they don’t spend hours looking at it.”

“Everyone sees the flames. I see the fire.”

“Oh, well, that explains it.”

“You see what is there,” Tezrian said. “The flames before you. That is what I normally see as well. But sometimes, the fire lets me see more. It shows me the flames burning in a smithy, in a town called Marlinquay. It shows me a tree seized by lightning, on a hill at the bottom of a mountain. It shows me the fire created by a jester at a marquess’ court, as part of a trick; he calls it magic, but it is not.”

Ah, of course, Jackson thought. The young man had been fascinated by magic in all its forms ever since he had discovered its existence in this world, but scrying was quite possibly his favorite -and not just because it had been of use to him in the past. The ability to see something happening miles away was certainly useful in addition to being impressive. Especially since, apparently, Tezrian could pull it with no other accessories than a fire. The priestess had said she would use that gift to help them in their war; so far, however, she had only contributed by indicating the rough locations of several of the Hexacracy’s armies.

“So that’s how you do it?” he said. “You look in the fire, and you see… all the fires?”

“Not all. The fire is everywhere, in this world and out of it. On the land, inside the mountains, in the air sometimes. One of the oldest priestesses in the House of the Living Flame even spoke of a fire burning at the bottom of the ocean, but most assumed age had addled her mind. A single soul cannot hope to see it all. Perhaps a most powerful archmage, one blessed by the Purest Flame… But that isn’t me.”

Jackson was once again intrigued by the way she spoke. Tezrian seemed to constantly switch between short, laconic answers and long, eloquent tirades. Moreover, she always spoke in the same tone, strangely even in all circumstances; she never shouted nor whispered. In fact, there were quite a few aspects of her that intrigued Jackson. For one thing, she didn’t like physical contact -not even a pat on the shoulder, he found out; though she had little issue touching horses. For another thing, it seemed she had no hobbies outside of preaching and occasionally sparring -though the latter she did not do for entertainment but solely to keep her edge. Her days consisted of preaching, eating, and doing chores for the camp. There were also her strange food habits: she preferred to boil her meat to the point where it probably had no taste left, and most often consumed her vegetables uncooked. Takes all kinds, Jackson thought with a shrug.

“You can see in people too, can’t you?” Jackson said. “You said you saw my fire, and Sathariel’s and Alizana’s too.”

He purposefully omitted Byron, although it seemed she had seen his “fire” as well.

“On occasion, the fire will show me this as well,” the priestess said. “But I don’t actually see it. Not the way I see you now. It is more like…” She paused. “The vision is burned inside me.”

“That… doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“It is neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The fire wills me to see, and I see.”

“The fire wills? You mean, like, it’s conscious?”

“In a way.” Her lips pursed and she finally looked away from the fire. “It is difficult to explain. It has to be experienced to be understood, I think.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you’ll excuse me if I’m not interested in experiencing it. Staring at flames for hours sounds like the perfect recipe for blindness. I’m surprised you don’t need glasses at this point.”

He knew several others had tried, to no avail. A few had claimed to have seen something, but what they had reported was so blurry or vague that it was assumed their eyes had been playing tricks on them. At least one of them had the Talent, though only to a moderate degree, leading to the conclusion that the Talent alone wasn’t sufficient to receive visions from the flames.

“You needn’t see, Mad Jack,” she said. “Nor do you need to believe if you do not want to. But the fire knows you.”

“Pretty much everyone in the Southern Marches knows me by now,” Jackson mused. “Well, they know my name, at least. My face, not so much. When I go to the villages, nobody rushes to me to get my autograph or something. Not that I’m complaining.”

“Some know your face,” the priestess said. There was something sounding oddly like a warning in her voice, though it was hard to tell as her tone was still perfectly even.

“Well, yeah, a few, mostly in the Vertrisian Forest.”

“In the Hexacracy, as well,” Tezrian said.

“What?”

“The Archdemons have learned your name at Baluq, and one at least now knows your face. This is what I wished to discuss with you.”

“I…” Jackson bit his lip. “Did the fire show you that too?”

“In a way. As I was looking into the flames, I felt someone else watching.”

“You mean scrying?”

“Yes. I have felt them try several times over the course of days, though the forest made it difficult.”

“Right, but I didn’t stay in the forest all the time. Which means eventually…”

The priestess nodded.

“Okay, that’s not good,” Jackson said. “I mean, I’m kinda proud I made an impact and they’re taking me seriously now, but… Yeah, that’s probably not good.”

He thought back to his first journey to the Vertrisian Forest, and of the mercenary band he followed there.

“Is there any way you could give me some kind of protection against scrying? I knew a shaman in Atvello who could do that.”

Hopefully she’ll charge less than Vakdag, Jackson thought.

Tezrian stared at him in silence for a moment, then declared: “I believe I can.”

She held out her left hand, palm facing up. After a second, Jackson understood he was supposed to place his own hand in hers. Tezrian glanced down at his palm, tilting her head in surprise.

“You bear the mark of the House of the Living Flame,” she said.

“Ah, yeah. I used that place to store some stuff for a while. Actually, I don’t need that mark anymore. D’you think you can remove it or something?”

“I must.”

Tezrian pressed her thumb on his palm, and within moments, flames appeared. Though this wasn’t the first time Jackson witnessed such magic, he still got spooked when he saw the palm of his hand engulfed in fire. But just like last time, the flames soon went out, leaving not a single trace on his skin. Tezrian inspected his hand, probably to make sure the mark was entirely gone. Satisfied that it was, she clasped both hands around Jackson’s right hand and closed her eyes. There was another burst of flames, encasing all three of their hands up to the wrists. They were so bright Jackson had to turn his head and close his eyes as well. He heard the priestess whisper something in Hellian; the cadence indicated she was reciting something. This ritual lasted longer than the previous one. When Tezrian ceased her reciting, Jackson opened his eyes again, to find everything had gone back to normal. Once more, his hand was intact. The priestess was sweating and looked a bit winded; evidently the ritual was no mere feat.

“Is it done?” Jackson asked, reflexively massaging his palm even though there was no pain.

“It is.”

“Okay. So I’m protected, now?”

“You should be.”

Jackson lowered an eyebrow. “You don’t sound very confident.”

“This is something I’ve never done in the past,” Tezrian explained. “I applied the incantation as it was taught to me, but I can’t be certain of the result. I believe it will mostly depend on the power of whoever attempts to scry you.”

“What, you mean this could not work?”

“It will work, I can sense the magic I imbued around you. At the very least, it will make the scryer’s work more difficult. I can’t guarantee that it will make it impossible, however.”

Jackson glanced at his hand. “Well, better than nothing, I guess. Thanks.” He moved to leave, hesitated, then asked: “You don’t see the future, by chance?”

“I do sometimes see events that have yet to happen, but it is more by happenstance than truly by chance.”

“Err… sure. Another question: have you seen Neasa in your flames? She’s Neasa’s sister; looks kinda like her, but shorter.”

“I might have, but I would have to meet her to be sure. I do recall seeing a fire roar in the north, and devour many, Southrons and Hexacrats alike.”

 “Sounds like her alright. You didn’t happen to have seen her future, did you?”

Tezrian’s eyes swiveled right. “I saw… fire.”

“Shocker,” Jackson said, his shoulders dropping a little.

“The vision was distant, as it usually is when it comes to the future. I saw a burning madness consuming many minds. It expanded like a bushfire, or maybe a disease. And then… A bright, rapid fire, like the strike of lightning, but unnatural,” Tezrian continued.

“Wait… You mean, like, um, like the one at Baluq?”

“Yes, just like. And then, I saw another, greater fire, dim and die. I saw little beyond that.”

Jackson bit his upper lip, suddenly quite worried. So what does that mean? I’m gonna end up shooting Neasa? And “dim and die”… What does that mean?

“So… What do you think these visions mean?” he asked.

“Hard to say,” Tezrian simply answered.

Oh, great. Now she’s back to being laconic.

“Well, um… Can the future be changed, then?”

She considered him as if he had asked something incongruous.

“I imagine it can, yes,” she said slowly. “Possibly. One could see one’s own fire extinguish before his time, or later. In either case, one’s future would be changed.”

“It’s not set in stone, then,” Jackson said, breathing a little easier.

“I suppose not. What I saw is possible, but not definite, I don’t think. But understand this, Mad Jack: the future is like the fire. Some may tame it with great effort and vigilance, and control its course, but it can never truly be restrained.”

After this ambiguous warning, it seemed she had no more to say. Jackson left her to tend to prepare for the evening’s rite, feeling like his stomach had shrunk by a few inches.

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