The Pulver Chronicles – 34. Time Of Peace

“Did you pack the gourds?” Alizana asked.

Jackson patted a satchel on Florid’s saddle. His greaves, attached beside it, made a clunking sound.

“What about the oil for your armor? Are you sure you’ll have enough?”

“Yes, Mom,” Jackson said, rolling his eyes.

Sathariel, who was helping pack the horses, chuckled.

“What about-”

“Liz, come on. We double-checked everything. You triple-checked everything. We’re good! We have food, we have water, we have weapons, I have every piece of my armor… Do you want to check if our horses have all their irons?”

Alizana sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s only that you’ll be leaving for quite some time… And you’re heading towards enemy territory, too. I should be going with you.”

“We talked about this. This isn’t actually enemy territory, and it’s better if I meet with the Emperor.” His eyes softened as he added: “If I could bring you with me, I would. I could use the support… And I’m sure gonna miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” she said.

There was a lull, then she wrapped her strong arms around him and held him tightly against her, burrowing her nose in his hair. Jackson returned the hug.

“I’ll come back to you soon, Liz,” Jackson whispered.

“You will,” she said, a little forceful.

 “Count on it.”

They kissed, and the kiss went on until someone coughed. It was Joanni, one of the riders who would accompany Jackson on his journey. She served in the Rebellion’s army in the light cavalry. In fact, she had been one of the gunners at the Battle of Baluq, having been trained in the use of firearms by Jackson. A small, somewhat plain woman, she had short dirty blonde hair, sharp brown eyes, and a square jaw. She spoke with what Jackson was told was an Opalian accent, from a region of the Hexacracy known as the Opal Coast; it had hard r’s and often turned e’s into a’s. She was indeed from the Hexacracy, and had joined the Rebellion when a Hellhound tribe fleeing south had crossed her village, out of a desire to liberate herself from the local lord who had caused the death of both her parents.

In total, the band was composed of five people, all Human, and seven horses. Their equipment consisted of a suit of light armor and a chainmail, covered by a cape. Anyone seeing them on the road would think they were just another band of mercenaries, not an uncommon sight in times of war.

Jackson approached Florid and unlatched the satchel on the left of his horse’s saddle, and peered at its contents. The leather folder was still there, containing the letters. Satisfied that they hadn’t disappeared from inside a closed container, he latched the satchel again, fighting against the urge to also open the folder and read the letter. He knew what was in it by heart anyway by now, having already read them both over two dozen times since he had received it ten days ago. It wasn’t every day one received letters from the Emperor, after all.

Tarey’s return to camp had been so discreet even the watchers had not noticed him. This had almost caused an incident, but thankfully Sathariel had intervened quickly to diffuse it. Tarey went straight to Jackson, and delivered the leather folder containing two letters directly in his hands. The atmosphere had been quite tense as Jackson opened the folder and unfolded the two letters. Both were rather short and to the point, much in the spirit of the one to which they were responding.

The first letter began, traditionally, with the style of both the sender and the recipient:

From Damian, the third of his name, of the house Steedian, by the Divine’s Will Emperor of the Narrians, the Hastadish, the Leylen, and the Southrons, to Jackson Pulver, also known as Mad Jack, strategist of the Southern Alliance.

Both Jackson and Sathariel had immediately noted the slight change in the Imperial style. Emperor of the Southrons… Had Damian III already decided that the Southern Marches would be an Imperial province again? Did he want to make that point clear to Jackson or was it just a bit of bluster?

The news of your war against the Hexacracy has reached my ears, as have those of your victories. You have proven to be a serious enemy to them, as have I. In your letter to me, you propose that we join our forces to ensure the defeat of the Archdemons and their armies. This proposal intrigues me. Gawain, through whom you have contacted me, has suggested that there is wisdom in seeking your enemy’s foes in order to find allies. I find myself in agreement with him.

As such, I propose that we discuss the modalities and conditions of such an alliance face to face. If you agree to this, please meet with me at Darvatera Castle, near the Narrian border, where I shall be residing until the nineteenth day of seeding. You will find along with this letter a writ of safe passage adorned with my seal, which will allow you to reach the place unmolested by my armies. You may come accompanied if you so wish, though you shall find the roads safe.

Whatever your decision, please inform me of it by courier.

 

The letter was concluded by a signature and a red wax seal. As written, it was indeed accompanied by another piece of paper, also adorned with the Imperial seal. Its contents had been written by the same hand, evidently. It, too, was to the point:

 

By this letter, I, Damian, the third of my name […] guarantee that the carrier and its retinue may travel freely through my realm. No man or woman having sworn fealty to me and my vassals may inflict harm upon them or hinder their passage, lest they face judgment before my law.

 

A little dramatic, maybe, Jackson had thought. But at least we know for sure the Imperials are gonna leave me alone. He, Alizana, and Sathariel had immediately got started on another letter, simply confirming the meeting. This time, they simply gave the letter to a courier, with instructions to deliver it to an Imperial officer garrisoned in Belga; from there, they trusted that it would soon reach the Emperor.

The next ten days had been a blur of preparations, planning, and packing. Some food was gathered, cured, and packed. Alizana suggested packing extra: after a year at war, living off the land might not be an option. Sathariel pointed out that, unlike the Hexacracy, there had been very few stories of the Empire looting farms and burning the fields. It took some convincing, but eventually she relented… and then went on to insist that Jackson didn’t travel alone. Jackson agreed, among other reasons because he would appreciate the company over the next ten to twelve days the journey would take. He also didn’t need much argument to be convinced to bring his armor, especially after he heard from Byron he wouldn’t have to wear it the whole time. Truthfully, he had come to like that suit of armor almost as much as he liked his dryadelle outfit, though he still preferred not to have it on for long periods of time; the thing was as difficult to remove as it was to put on.

Bringing his armor meant logically bringing Koval. Koval was a young boy, somewhere between the age of thirteen and fourteen -the boy himself wasn’t sure-, with messy red hair, a sharp chin, and a sharper nose. Jackson had met him about a week before receiving the letter as he was visiting the Nakli camp where the boy lived. Koval had lost his mother, of fragile health, to the cold rains of the last winter. As to his father, he had died a few years earlier during the peasants’ revolt that had led to the Hellhound Rebellion. In spite of his lack of fortune, Koval was of optimistic and joyful predisposition. He was almost always curious, outgoing, and energetic. This was the main reason, the second one being his orphanage, that persuaded Jackson to train him as his squire.

The boy knew precious little about armors and their upkeep, but was very willing to learn. With his tutelage -well, also Byron’s tutelage-, Jackson had no doubts Koval would soon grow up to be a good squire, and from there a good knight.

“Ready to go, kid?” Jackson said to Koval.

Jackson wasn’t sure why he had taken to calling “kid” someone who was only six or seven years younger than him. But it was amusing, and the kid didn’t seem to mind. Koval, as for him, called Jackson “sire” and “sir Jackson”; Jackson had told him many times that he wasn’t a nobleman, and thus Koval could just call him by his name, but Koval was dogged.

“Yes, sire!” Koval said as he affixed a heavy-looking satchel to his horse’s saddle. Jackson rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother to correct him that time.

The knot he had used came undone almost immediately, dropping the satchel to ground and spilling its contents. Thankfully, they had landed on the grass, and not in a nearby pool of mud, or on rocks. Koval turned almost as red as his hair, and hurriedly picked it all up. Jackson helped him fix the whole mess before getting on his horse. He went to shake Sathariel’s hand before leaving, then brought him in for a hug.

“Good luck, Jack.”

“Thanks. Make sure Liz doesn’t get too worried. And…” He leaned to whisper in his ear: “Keep her warm at night.”

Sathariel laughed, a little awkwardly, and jokingly punched him.

The three other people joining them were soldiers, part of the Allied army’s light cavalry just like Joanni. Jackson had just about learned their names but otherwise didn’t know them well; all of them had been present at Baluq, one of them was also a veteran of Atvello. Jackson climbed on Florid, then signaled the group to get on their horses, and they soon took off towards the south. The young man couldn’t help but look over his shoulder at Alizana, staring at him until they disappeared from each other’s sight.

A clement weather accompanied them for the first three days of the journey, as they made their way around the Vertrisian Forest. Then, they headed east, until they reached a small village once known as Boar’s Berth on the evening of the third day. It had been abandoned at some point during the war, owing to too many raids, and the approach of the Hexacracy’s armies. Even though the danger had been dealt with at Baluq, the inhabitants had yet to come back, having probably found safety in a fortified town and suspecting that the war was far from over. After Boar’s Bed, they continued to the east, towards Llorysport. That was when the weather took a turn for the worse. It rained on and off for six days, turning the small path they had picked up into a muddy mess. Jackson had never loved his cape more than he did during those days. The group had to slow down, especially during the sixth day as a strong wind blew, directing raindrops in their faces. The seventh day was thankfully better, as only a little rain dropped, and only during the morning. It was a bit cold, but the wind had also dropped.

Other than the elements, nothing came to threaten or hinder their trek. Joanni, serving as the band’s scout, managed to detect several bands of raiders and what looked like one group of deserters along the way, allowing the group to avoid them. Jackson thought to come back at a later date to deal with them, but Byron reasoned that they would have probably moved on by then.

Llorysport appeared before them on the eighth day, some time after the zenith. Jackson had been told it was the second most populated city in the Southern Marches. Looking at it from the top of a hill, it did look quite big, stretching from the side of a cliff in the north, all the way to a curved peninsula jutting into the sea. It had been built on the northern shore of a river, which now served as a moot. A stone rampart made out of off-white stones surrounded the city’s core, punctuated by half a dozen towers. Most of the inner city’s buildings were little houses made out of the same stones as the rempart, with roofs of black tiles. There were also not one but two small forts, one erected on top of the cliff, and the other, quite smaller, built at the end of the peninsula. The latter included a high tower at its center which appeared to serve as a lighthouse of sorts; that small fort had visibly suffered from the conquest, with a good third of it having been destroyed and the rest barely holding together. Both forts harbored the red and yellow colors of the Archcommander’s Legions, as did the soldiers posted on the rampart and in the towers. Jackson’s group headed towards the stable near the western gate, having decided to make a halt outside the city for the night due to the weather. They kept a low profile the whole time, and away from the rampart, owing to the Hexacracy’s presence. Jackson in particular made sure not to show his face to any soldier. Thankfully, it appeared that many still didn’t know what he actually looked like. Point two in favor of big-ass, ugly helmets, I guess.

Much like Atvello, Llorysport had begun as a fisher’s village, which had then grown into a full-blown city by virtue of being located on an important trade node. It too had a deep-water port with many ships coming in and out, and a busy marketplace right next to it. Fish were of course the most traded commodity, but all sorts of seafood were being sold as well: clams, mussels, scallops, cockles… Quite a few food stalls also offered to prepare and cook them for a price. The local specialty was the Llory’s cake, which consisted of fried clams baked into a sort of beignet. As his group acquired more food for the rest of the journey, Jackson decided to try some; he found them quite filling, though the taste would take some getting used to.

The group slept in an empty warehouse that had been reconverted into an almshouse, housing perhaps four dozen people, mostly war refugees. The crowd helped them remain unnoticed. A corner of the almshouse was used as a hospital of sorts, where a priest of the Imperial Cult administered treatments and blessings. Several altars had been built along the northern wall, decorated with handmade sculptures, various offerings, and lit candles. Jackson and the others woke up the next morning shortly after dawn, and resumed their trek, this time going north along the road.

The last five days of the journey proved calm. The weather remained mild, with mid-to-low temperatures and just a little rain in the early hours of the morning. Joanni went on to scout ahead once again, but there wasn’t much to report anymore. As they passed Belga and entered the Empire-controlled Marches, the countryside became tamer. Not a single raiding band was found, nor was any rumor of bandit activity related in any of the villages they crossed. In fact, one village had recently been repopulated, as the land had been deemed safe enough again, and a new local lord had been named -a count, this time, not a marquess. They did meet with a few Imperial patrols however. Two of these patrols hailed them, inquiring about who they were and where they were going. Presenting the Emperor’s writ of safe passage answered their questions; rather, the Imperial sigil did, as most of the soldiers were illiterate.

Darvatera Castle was found on the late morning of the thirteenth day, on a high hill overlooking a valley crossed by a river. It was another of those castles built for solidity and without concern for esthetic: it looked to Jackson like a big, stony brick, with slits for windows, and a single tower jutting out of its southwest corner. A wooden wall surrounded the hill on which it stood, which looked like it had been erected recently; in fact, a portion of it was being worked on by twenty or so men, seemingly hired from the local peasantry. Many tents had been raised in front of these walls, occupying nearly the whole space between them and the river. At a guess, Byron suggested that several hundred soldiers were housed there, possibly up to a thousand. Jackson noticed the standards planted in front of the tents. There were several of them, showing various coats of arms, but the most common was one displaying a rearing black horse on a green field; the very same horse that featured on the Imperial sigil.

The small company was once again stopped by a patrol before they got within a mile of the camp. Once more, the Emperor’s written word and sigil allowed them to pass. The officer -who actually knew how to read- even bowed to Jackson, fist on chest, and apologized.

“Just doing your job, man,” Jackson said.

The camp was busy, likely in preparation for a future campaign -at least according to Byron. Every person present seemed to have a job to do. The soldiers trained, the smiths forged weapons and repaired armors, the fletchers fabricated arrows to fill every archer’s quiver, the workers gathered food, water, and materials, the logisticians inventoried what was made and gathered… Steam rose from the kitchen tent as lunch neared.

The wooden wall’s gate was opened. Two sentries, clad in iron armor and holding up a spear, were posted on either side; this time, Jackson presented his writ before they could ask for it. One of them glanced at it and said:

“Please wait here, sir.”

The sentry left his post and entered the castle through a servant’s door, while the other continued his watch. Minutes passed. Koval looked at Jackson, uneasiness birthing in his eyes. Jackson gave him a confident smile which seemed to calm him down. Finally, as the sun approached its zenith behind the cover of clouds, the castle’s gate opened, moved by two servants. Two men came out. One was the sentry, and the other was a young man wearing a chainmail covered by a green and black tabard with the Imperial steed emblazoned on the chest, but with an oblique red bar across it. Jackson smiled and, in his enthusiasm, almost called out his real name. He swallowed his tongue, then said:

“Gawain.”

“Mad Jack,” David said, returning his smile.

“This is Mad Jack?” the sentry accompanying him said.

“Heard of me?” Jackson said.

“It is he,” David confirmed. “The victor at Baluq, the slayer of Namtar.”

Jackson almost corrected him, but elected not to. The sentry seemed to have further questions -and quite a few at that-, but David cut them off:

“Thank you, you may resume your watch.”

“Yes, Sir Gawain.”

The sentry returned to his post, giving Jackson and his group a few glances as they followed David in the castle. One of the servants who had opened the door went to stand next to David. She was wearing a simple robe, covered by an apron with quite a few grease spots.

“The Emperor will meet you upstairs in the main dining room,” David said. “Your people will have to wait here. They’ll be fed and looked after, don’t worry.”

Jackson turned to the others and relayed the demand. They all agreed without protest, except Koval.

“I can’t come with you to meet the Emperor?” he said, looking like a child on a Christmas without presents.

“Sorry, kid. I’ll tell you all about it, don’t worry. In the meantime, why don’t you try the Imperial cuisine and tell me what it’s worth, huh?”

He patted his shoulder, and Koval nodded before following the group to the next room. Jackson turned back to David.

“All right, lead on.”

Darvatera Castle wasn’t much to look at from the outside, and the inside wasn’t much better. There were barely any decorations on the austere stone walls or on the simple wooden furniture. A few rooms were unoccupied, and empty save for the dust and the cobwebs. David explained that the place had been abandoned for a while before the war, and that the Emperor and his armies would not occupy it for long.

“You’ll be on the move soon?” Jackson asked. “Where are you going next? South to Llorysport?”

“You’ll have to ask the Emperor, he’ll tell you if he wishes.”

“What? You mean he doesn’t tell you?”

“I’m rarely part of the strategic councils. He does tell me some things, and I hear some, but I’m a knight. I took an oath to keep his secrets.”

“Ah, yeah, I thought I heard that guard call you sir. So it’s official now? You got knighted.”

“I did, yes,” David said, scratching the nape of his neck, a great, proud smile growing on his mouth. “Can you believe it? I’m now sir Gawain valSteedian, knight of the Silver Steed and shield of the Emperor. He knighted me himself, too.”

“ValSteedian?”

“Yeah, because I’m a bastard. “Val” is the particle we add to the names of illegitimate children. That is, the ones that get recognized at all.”

“Damn! Look at you, officially part of the Imperial family. Does that mean you have a shot at the throne if the Emperor dies?”

“Well, no, I’m still illegitimate. I mean, historically, some lords have let their bastards succeed them, but it’s very rare, and usually because they have no other issue. The Emperor has a son who’s already been named heir apparent. And anyway… No, no.”

After a long ascent in a spiral staircase, they arrived at a corridor on the top floor. As they did, a door at the end opened, and five people came out one at a time. From their clothing, Jackson could tell they were noblemen. They recovered their weapons, stored in a rack, and handed to them by a servant looking no older than Koval.

“Ah, the council is about to finish,” David said.

He placed his fist on his chest and bowed as the nobles passed him by. Three of them returned his greeting with either a word or a nod. The other two just walked by. One of them, an elderly, balding man, was apparently too distracted to notice him; the other, a tall, bearded man with greying auburn hair, looking to be in his mid-forties, clearly and deliberately ignored him. He did take notice of Jackson, however, although he said nothing to him. The whole time, Jackson had remained still and quiet, unsure whether he should salute those people or not. Judging by his expressions, the last one seemed to know or at least suspect who he was. Once they were down the stairs and out of sight, David said:

“Okay, before we meet the Emperor, I should give you a few pointers. How much do you know about Imperial court etiquette?”

“Uh, just about nothing,” Jackson admitted. With a smile, he added: “Except that I’m pretty sure spitting on the floor is not allowed.”

“Hmm, no, definitely not. The first thing -the most important thing- is: you must always refer to him as “Emperor”. Titles are very important to him.”

“He’s that kind of guy, huh?” Jackson said.

“He is. I mean, he’s not anal about it or anything, he’s just very rule-minded. You can just say “sire” instead, if you feel like you’re repeating yourself. That’d be acceptable. You also don’t have to call him “my Emperor”, that’s also acceptable since you are not his subject. The second thing is: mind your language. He doesn’t like swearing or cursing. He’s not fond of shouting either.”

“I mean, I wasn’t planning on insulting his whole family or making a scene, but okay.”

“The third thing: only sit down if he invites you to do so. If he stands, you must stand as well. In the same vein, don’t start eating or drinking before he does. No, wait.” David scratched his lip. “You’re his guest, so actually you’ll be invited to eat first.”

“That about it?” Jackson said.

“Yeah. Uh, no, one last thing: you have to leave your weapons behind. It’s forbidden to appear armed before the Emperor.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” 

He removed his belt, holding his sword in its scabbard, and stored it on the weapons’ rack. His pistol was next, placed on a table still in its satchel.

“The ax too, please,” David said.

Jackson removed it and dropped it next to the pistol.

“What about you?” he asked, glancing at David’s sword.

“I’m allowed to keep mine. It would be hard to protect the Emperor unarmed.”

“Protect him from me, you mean?” Jackson said, amused.

“It’s not against you, it’s just protocol. If the Emperor was worried about you, he wouldn’t have invited you to meet him in person. Speaking of, let’s not make him wait.”

“He doesn’t like tardiness either?”

“He finds it disrespectful. And he’s a busy man, especially these days.”

David entered through the door left open, and Jackson followed him. They entered a large room, with bare stone walls like the rest of the castle, at the center of which was a long, wooden table surrounded by twelve chairs on the sides, and a bigger chair at the end. Several sheets of yellowed paper were strewn on it, and in the process of being gathered by the young servant Jackson had seen handing out the nobles their weapons earlier. Another servant, this one middle-aged, was collecting empty plates and cups, and replacing them with clean ones, two of each.

A man, about one inch taller than Jackson, was standing near the hearth of a chimney. He looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties, with a head full of jet black hair -worn long, like many Imperial nobles did from what Jackson had heard-, broad shoulders, and good muscles that could be discerned through his clothes. A light beard underlined his strong jaw, currently tightened in concentration as he read from an opened book he held in his hands. He shut it when he saw Jackson and David enter the room, and walked to them. With a move both calculated and rigid, he held out his hand to Jackson, who shook it, trying to match his firmness. It was a brief handshake, too, the Emperor removing his hand quicker than he had held it out.

“Good day, sir Jackson. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.” His voice had little warmth to it, but it wasn’t exactly cold either.

“Thank you for inviting me, Emperor,” Jackson said. “Didn’t think people shook hands in the Empire”

“Not commonly,” the Emperor said, “but Gawain tells me it is traditional in your world.”

“D- Gawain told you about our world, sir? I mean, Emperor?”

“I have been curious, and he has been patient enough to indulge me. Now, if you don’t mind, I would prefer it if we got into the meat of things without delay. This war leaves me little time for courtesy.”

The politeness of the words was undercut by the shortness of the tone. Jackson thought the Emperor sounded like someone who didn’t expect to be told no -and rarely was.

“That’s fine with me, Emperor.”

The title came out a little stilted, possibly due to the fact that using it made Jackson feel like he was back in the US Army, and talking to a superior officer.

“Good. Please take a seat.”

Damian III sat on the big chair at the table’s end, offered Jackson the seat to his right, and nodded at Gawain to take the one to his left. Even seated, the Emperor still looked tall, due in part to the fact that he kept his back very straight, with his shoulders open. The aura around him helped as well: this was clearly a man used to dominating his entourage, to be the center of attention.

“I hope you won’t mind either that lunch shall take place during our talks. Again, my time is limited, and I strive to use it efficiently. You are, of course, invited to share the meal.”

“That’s no problem, sire.”

“I’m aware of Gawain’s diet restrictions, but to his knowledge you have none. Is that correct?”

“No, I eat pretty much anything, sire.”

The servant, who had finished setting the table, was sent away with another nod. He closed the door behind him.

“Do you want me to deal with this?” Byron said.

“No. I’d rather we didn’t switch with David in the room. He knows me, he would notice if something’s off. Better to keep him in the dark about you, he’s never been a good liar.”

“Well, then,” Damian III said as soon as the door was closed. “The goal of this meeting is to negotiate peace between the Eastern Empire and the… Southern Alliance, you called it?”

“Um, yes, but… Negotiate peace, sire? I didn’t realize we were at war.”

“We are not, but some of my lords and my generals believe we should be.”

“Why?” Jackson asked. “We haven’t done anything to you, sire. Hell, we’ve helped you. We’re the reason the Hexacracy hasn’t taken Atvello to ship more troops in the Southern Marches. We’re the reason you’re facing five Archdemons instead of six.”

“I realize that, sir Jackson,” the Emperor said. “And so do those lords and generals I mentioned. According to them, however, fighting the same enemy does not place us on the same side. In fact, they say it should not. One of them, in fact, goes as far as to say that we should attack the Southern Alliance now, while it is busy fighting the Hexacracy. “Seize the opportunity” were his words, I recall.”

“What?” Jackson blurted out.

“These men think of the Alliance as a threat to the Empire’s claim over the South. They think you rebels, and believe you should be treated as such.”

“Excuse me?”

Jackson asked himself whether the Emperor was trying to get a rise out of him. His voice was calm and controlled, his face expressionless, but still he spoke of waging war against his people.

“Jack,” David said, half-rising from his chair and holding up his hand. “The Emperor is just telling you what they think. If he agreed with them, you wouldn’t be here.”

To his old friend’s surprise, Jackson chuckled instead of getting angry. “Well, you know what, sire? They’re right: we are rebels. We rebelled against the Hexacracy, and it was the damn best thing we’ve ever done.”

David sat back down. The Emperor raised an eyebrow.

“The Hexacracy,” the latter repeated. “Gawain did tell me the core of your Alliance was made of former soldiers of the Hexacracy. He hesitated to call them deserters.”

“That’s the gist of it, yeah,” he said. “Sire,” he quickly added.

“From what I’ve heard of your battles, your warriors are no mere soldiers. According to my scouts’ reports and the testimony of several prisoners, they are huge monsters. One of the prisoners alleged them to be the product of a union between Werewolves and Werebears.”

They have Werebears in this world? Jackson thought.

“I don’t think that’s possible, sire, but I get why they’d think that.”

Damian remained silent, evidently waiting for him to elaborate on the true nature of these creatures. Realizing he wouldn’t, the Emperor continued:

“As to my lords, they certainly consider you rebels, not solely against the Hexacracy, but also against the Empire.”

“That makes no sense,” Jackson said. “Like I said, we haven’t done a thing to you, sire.”

“But you have. You’re working to unite the South.”

“Right, to defend ourselves against an invasion, sire. Is that a crime?”

“Not in itself, no. But Gawain tells me your aim is to preserve the South as an independent territory, owing fealty to neither the Hexacracy nor the Empire.”

Ah, of course.

“Independence is our right, sire,” Jackson said. “Maybe Gawain told you this already, but in my world, every person who wants to be free has the right to be.”

“We have discussed your world’s culture, yes. He has also told me of your own country’s history, and the wars it waged to not only protect its territory, but to expand it.”

“Right… So, your lords want us dead because we’re taking the Southern Marches away from the Empire. Is that about right, sire?”

“That is, summed up, what they are saying, yes.”

“And what are you saying, sire?” Jackson asked.

“I am saying what I have always said to my subjects: that the South, taken from us by the Hexacracy, will be returned to the Empire. It is my duty as Emperor, as protector of the Southrons.”

“You sound like you do agree with these lords.”

“Oh, but I do not, sir Jackson.” The Emperor frowned very slightly. “As I said, my duty is to protect the people in the South, not wage war against them. I will see the South brought back into the Imperial realm, yes, but I would do so by peaceful means, if at all possible.”

“Right, that would be why we’re talking, then, sire.”

“Yes. In addition, as you said in your letter, the war against the Hexacracy is costly and destructive enough without having to divert our attention to a second front.”

“Not that we agree on, sire,” Jackson said. “But the other part, not so much. The Southern Marches want to be free. Why should they renege that?”

“Renege?” Damian’s mouth quivered at the corners. “It is not slavery I offer, sir Jackson, but vassalage. The dukes and counts will oath their fealty to me, as they did to the Emperors before the First Southern War. Their subjects will obey my law, and their soldiers my orders. Beyond that, they are free to live as they please. I am their Emperor, not their god. This is no different from the government of your country, from what Gawain told me of it.”

“He says that, and maybe he believes it too,” Byron said. “Tyrants rarely think of themselves as anything but just rulers. As to comparing himself to the American government, that just makes me want to oppose him more.”

Once again, Jackson was in agreement with Byron, though the latter had formulated his thoughts more eloquently.

“Maybe so,” Jackson said. “But why should we bend the knee to you, sire? Or to anyone? These are our lands. We work them, and we bleed for them. What makes them yours?”

“They are not mine, and will not be, sir Jackson,” the Emperor calmly retorted. “They belong to the lords ruling it, and to the peasants working it. On this, we agree. But ask yourself: who gave this land to those who now live off it? Much of the South was rough and wild, the prey to pirates, bandits, and barbarians, until the Empire arrived to tame it and make it liveable. It was the Empire who built many of the castles the marquesses inhabit today. It was the Empire who created the roads the merchants roam. Furthermore, what little was civilized before was under the Archdemons’ heel.”

“By your logic, wouldn’t that part belong to the Archdemons, sire?”

“It would, had they fulfilled their duty as rulers, had they protected their subjects and their interests. But they didn’t, and the Southrons pledged themselves to my ancestor Damian II instead. Now, the South is mine to claim, and I don’t intend to fail my duties towards it. I will guard it, along with its people, against all who threaten them. Starting with the Hexacracy.”

Jackson had to admit the man sounded like he truly believed what he was saying. Overall, Damian III did not act like he had expected. The Emperor, in spite of being one of the most powerful men on the continent, did not sound boastful or proud. He did not repeatedly try to assert his authority, did not act as if he was the only adult in the room, and did not shout “I am the Emperor!”. He spoke not of power, but of duty. Moreover, he remained calm and respectful, even as Jackson was arguing with him -and not in a very couth manner. Jackson was beginning to understand why David was so loyal to him.

But still, Byron was right: many bloodthirsty tyrants could sit around this table and give the same speech. Damian III, for all of his good intentions, was still a monarch, a title he had obtained by his birth rather than any merit. From what he knew of the Empire’s history, its rulers often had a “my way or the highway” mindset when it came to applying the law and consolidating their power.

“I can appreciate that, sire, but the people of the South are capable of defending themselves. We’ve proven that a few times.”

“While I once again acknowledge your victories so far, sir Jackson, the fact is the war is only beginning. You defeated several armies, but the Hexacracy has more. In addition, your Southern Alliance is expanding; this will require you to stretch your troops and your supply lines. You will have to fight on many fronts, perhaps at the same time.”

“We can take it, sire,” Jackson said confidently.

“Possibly, but for how long? The war may last for many years. The First Southern War lasted eight years, and claimed thousands of lives. The Empire can raise more troops. Can you, sir Jackson?”

Jackson hesitated. The short answer to that question was yes. The longer answer was yes, but… 

In theory, the creation of the Southern Alliance had brought them some more troops. For the most part, however, much of these troops were mercenaries, and bound not to remain loyal should the money run out -for instance, in case of a protracted conflict. There were also some Hexacrat deserters, as well as some Southrons with combat experience, but they were few. Overall, those additional troops were limited in number, barely enough to replace the warriors fallen in battle. So far, not a single marquess had joined the Alliance, and neither had their armies. Five of them, whose fief bordered the Alliance’s territory, had been contacted and formally offered to join; so far, three had written back to decline -one of them politely-, the last two had not even deigned to respond.

“Probably not as much, sire,” Jackson said.

“How many do you number, currently?” the Emperor asked. “According to my scouts, you had over a thousand troops at Baluq, but I’m assuming you did not gather all of your forces there.”

“We didn’t, sire. In total, we currently have over three thousand warriors.”

That figure was an exaggeration. In actuality, the Alliance’s army numbered between twenty-six and twenty-eight hundred people. It was also somewhat misleading, as it didn’t take into account the warriors who couldn’t actually be fielded, due to their injuries or other personal circumstances. However, Jackson decided it was wiser to exaggerate. The man in front of him was not his ally -although he hoped that would change. As Byron once told him, all warfare was deception.

“Three thousand,” the Emperor repeated. Jackson carefully studied his reaction for any hint that he smelled the deception, but he remained expressionless. “My scouts tell me the Hexacrat armies now number twenty-one thousand soldiers. The Empire has a little over eighteen thousand. Those numbers, of course, do not include the reserves. I have not summoned all of my vassals as of yet, nor have the Archdemons.”

The door opened again, and two servants entered, holding plates of food. They placed them on the table, and began serving. This offered a good distraction to Jackson, who had been slightly taken aback by the numbers. He already knew that the Empire and the Hexacracy both had greater forces than the Southern Alliance, of course, but it was still a punch to the guts to hear that the Empire alone outnumbered them nearly seven to one.

“You wish for the whole South to join your Alliance,” the Emperor went on as he picked up his fork and knife, and began to eat. Jackson once again followed suit. “Do you believe three thousand soldiers will be sufficient to defend the entire land, sir Jackson? Knowing you’ll have to contend not only with the Hexacracy, but also with bandits, deserters, and possibly pirates alongside the coast.”

“More will join us, sire,” Jackson said. The confidence in his voice was partly faked, this time. “We’re currently looking to get some marquesses on our side.”

“I know, sir Jackson. Two of them have contacted me, and offered their vassalage.”

The young man peeled his eyes. “Was it lords Raymund and Doman?”

“It was,” the Emperor said.

Jackson gnawed on his bottom lip. His intuition had been right. Those were the last two marquesses he had contacted, the same two who had not responded. Apparently, his offer had driven them to join the Eastern Empire instead. Why? Out of spite? Out of distrust? Or… out of fear, maybe?

His mouth felt very dry as he realized that meant the Empire was now right next to Vertrisia and its forest. He picked up his cup, filled with red wine by one of the servants. Speaking of which, Jackson noticed the servants had absconded as soon as they were done serving.

“Even assuming you can win the war against the Hexacracy,” the Emperor went on, “which you will have to do by force of arms as the Archcommander does not seem keen on diplomacy, have you considered what will come after?”

“After the war, sire?” Jackson frowned.

“Yes, sir Jackson. Your Alliance, as I understand, is mostly motivated by the invasion. It was forged by war. Do you believe it can survive peace? Would Atvello continue to fund you if they are no longer at risk of being besieged? Would any of the marquesses side with you without a common enemy? And speaking of the marquesses, can you manage to prevent infighting between them?”

Jackson looked at David, remembering when he had used the same argument. He clenched his jaw.

“I will not belabor my point further,” Damian III said. “The Empire, united by a common rule and not a common enemy, can defeat the Hexacracy, then protect the South and keep it whole. Your Alliance, alone, cannot. Become my vassal, you and chieftain Alizana, and together we can win. Together, we can protect our people. I’ll even grant chieftain Alizana the land of Vertrisia as her fief.”

Silence fell around the table. For a little while, the only sounds were of the utensils as all three ate. The meal was a choice piece of beef. Jackson didn’t know what cut, nor did he care. In different circumstances, he would probably have loved his meal. But right then, he couldn’t. A sour taste in his mouth marred that of the meat and the vegetables.

“There’s a lot of truth to what you said, sire,” Jackson said, clearing his throat. “I won’t deny it. But my people are proud. They’ve lived for a long time in servitude. They fought hard for their freedom. And now that they had a taste of it, they decided they love it.”

“As I said, I do not offer servitude, sir Jackson.” The Emperor’s mood darkened somewhat. It appeared he didn’t like repeating himself. Or perhaps it was the implication that he was a tyrant? “My vassals and their subjects enjoy many liberties, protected by our laws and customs. We have no intention of imposing either our culture or our faith upon your people. The Hexacracy would not offer such a guarantee.”

Jackson already knew that last part. From the Hellhounds’ testimonies of their life there, the Archdemons seemed committed to forcing their religion and their way of thinking on them. Of course, ever since the Rebellion, the Hellhounds didn’t have to worry about losing their culture in the case of a Hexacrat victory, and more likely their very lives.

But how much truth was in those promises? The Emperor gave Jackson the impression of a straightforward man, and his words seemed honest. Still, the young man knew nothing of him. It could be that Damian III was a gifted liar and manipulator; those skills were often necessary to be a competent ruler -so Byron believed, at least, but Jackson was close to agreeing with him. That marble-like expression of his could have certainly doubled as an excellent pokerface. Jackson considered his answer carefully as he chewed on his surprisingly tender meat.

“I’ll relay your proposal to our chieftains, sire,” he said. “I can’t guarantee that they’ll accept. In fact, to be honest with you, I’m pretty sure they won’t. They don’t like the Empire any more than they like the Hexacracy.”

“I appreciate your candor,” the Emperor said. He hadn’t eaten much off his plate during his speech; his food had to be cold by now. “I didn’t expect an answer today; all I ask is that you offer it due consideration. Are you at least able to discuss a truce between our forces?”

“Yes, sire. Well, depending on your terms. I’m assuming you have some?”

“Only one. I’ve heard rumors that you are planning to take Llorysport from the Hexacracy.”

Jackson pursed his lips as he tried the wine again. He assumed by “rumors”, the Emperor was alluding to more reports of his scouts. Or his spies: if the Southern Alliance could play the spying game, it would have been foolish to assume the Empire couldn’t.

“That’s true, sire.”

“As part of our terms, I would ask that you relinquish the city to the Eastern Empire.”

A bit of meat sauce dripped on Jackson’s lap. He ignored it.

“That’s… not a small ask, sire.”

“Is it not? Besieging the city will be a difficult, lengthy endeavor. It will require time, men, and provisions. And all of that for little profit: you have no fleet, thus the port city is of no use to you.”

But it will be of great use to you. Especially since it would give you a way to land more troops quickly. And right next to Vertrisia, too, in case our peace doesn’t last.

That being said, the Emperor was correct. Taking Llorysport would be risky, and in the end probably not worth the candle. The relief of liberating the last portion of the east coast still held by the Hexacracy would weigh little in comparison to what it would cost. One glance at Byron confirmed he was in agreement.

“All right, sire,” Jackson said to the Emperor. “I suppose that’s a small price to pay if it means we’ll be fighting in the same corner. That is just the one term, right?”

“Certainly,” Damian III said. “Now, there is only the matter of the signature.”

The Emperor nodded to David, who left the room. He reappeared minutes later, carrying two leather folders, which he placed on the table and opened, as well as two quills and an inkwell. They each contained a single, long piece of parchment, which Jackson realized were two identical copies of the same document. Rather, the text was identical, but, having been written by hand, there were several differences in the style. Jackson read his own copy while Byron read the Emperor’s above his shoulder. The terms were plain and simple, as the document had clearly been created by military men. They stated that no acts of aggression would occur between the Southern Alliance and the Eastern Empire, and went on to clearly define what constituted such an act. In case one was committed, the offended party could ask for retribution; what specifically that retribution consisted of wasn’t detailed, and would “have to be determined by both parties, possibly in the presence of a third, neutral party”. Jackson assumed that should said retribution be denied or withheld, then the treaty would no longer apply. He briefly thought of Neasa as he considered that. We’ll have to make sure she only goes after the Hexacracy. I doubt treaties are something she cares about. Jackson also noticed that the treaty briefly mentioned the possibility of mutual assistance, military or otherwise, and only to say that this too would be “determined by both parties” at “a later date”.

“That means you shouldn’t expect the gallant knights of the Empire to charge to your rescue unless it’s in the Empire’s own interest,” Byron said.

“Guess so,” Jackson thought-said.

 Llorysport was also mentioned, with its belonging to the Empire being a condition to the whole treaty, as well as the land surrounding it. Jackson made sure no other concessions were hidden in the text; there weren’t.

The Emperor waited patiently as Jackson read the text in its entirety, then said:

“Sir Gawain here will act as my witness to the signing. You may also have one such witness, if you wish.”

Probably best if I do, Jackson thought. One more material than Byron.

“I would like my squire Koval as a witness, sire.”

With the Emperor’s nod, David went down to the kitchen to retrieve him. The boy’s jaw dropped and his eyes opened wide as saucers when he appeared before the Emperor. Even for a young person who had never lived under the Empire and couldn’t remember a time when the South was a part of it, meeting the Emperor had quite an effect.

Jackson told his squire to stand next to him, then asked David for a quill. His friend gave him one, after thoughtfully dipping its point in ink. Jackson stared at the bottom of the document for a moment, as he realized this was the first time he signed anything since the day he joined the US Army. Thankfully, while the military administration had him put his signature on a whole bunch of documents -none of which he had actually read, come to think of it-, this time it was only the one piece of paper. Still, he made sure not to mess it up. His signature was nothing fancy: it was basically just his last name with a little flourish in the end. Not very official, I guess, he thought until he saw Damian’s own signature, as the Emperor and he traded their documents. The imperial signature were just the words “Damian III” with a loop on the first d and another on the ascender of the last I.

After the two copies had been signed by both Jackson and the Emperor, the latter had David verify that all was in order. Jackson did the same with Koval. The boy was illiterate, although he was being taught the alphabet by Jackson, so all he did was check that both sets of signatures were present and relatively similar. He did so, then gave Jackson a little nod.

“It’s all in order, my liege,” David said to the Emperor.

“Excellent.” The Emperor closed his folder, then left his seat. Jackson imitated him. “Thank you, sir Jackson. I’m glad diplomacy is possible between our two people.”

“Me too, Emperor,” Jackson said. He made a move to shake his hand again, but changed his mind and gave the imperial salute instead. He did it my way, only normal I do it his.

“You and your men are welcome to spend the night here, if you wish,” Damian III said, responding to the salute. His bow was noticeably shorter.

“We would appreciate that, sire, thank you.”

 “I’m afraid I cannot offer you an escort for your journey back, but I’ll have my quartermaster give you some provisions. Goodbye, sir Jackson. Sir Gawain, please accompany him to his room.”

It seemed like the Emperor was rushing to end the meeting. As he left the room, Jackson understood why: several people were waiting outside. They were officers, judging by their outfits. Apparently, the Emperor had another meeting after this one. David led Jackson and Koval to the second floor. A room awaited them behind the third door on the right. Like the rest of the castle, it was bare save for some furniture, including a large bed.

“It still gets pretty cold at night,” David said, “but you can have the servants build a fire in the hearth, or bring you more covers. You can have food delivered, too. Basically, anything you need, just call.”

“I didn’t peg this place as a palace hotel,” Jackson said. “Do you get HBO?”

“You’re a guest, Jack. And as far as the servants are concerned, you’re basically nobility.”

Jackson scratched his nape. The notion that he would be treated as a superior by working folks felt… wrong to him.

“Well, I’m a big boy. I can make my own fire and get my own food. Do my men get a room too?”

“Yes, right next to yours. There’s no bed in that one, so they’ll have to sleep on the floor. Some cots will be given to them.”

“Still a step up from the tents, I guess,” Jackson said.

“Sure is. Apparently, it’s going to be windy tonight, and rainy tomorrow.” David hesitated, then smiled. “I’m glad your meeting with the Emperor went well. He really respects you, you know.”

“Yeah, I could tell by the way he spent the entire time browbeating me into bending the knee to him,” Jackson said.

“He didn’t browbeat you, Jack, come on. And that’s what I meant when I said he respects you. Do you think he offers to make a vassal out of anyone? He’s actually taking a big risk by doing that.”

“What? Offering vassalage to rebels?”

“No. Offering vassalage to Humanoids.”

Jackson blinked.

“You heard him: he offered for you and Alizana to become his vassals. He even offered to make Vertrisia your fief. How many Humanoids do you think are allowed to own land in the Eastern Empire?”

“From the way you phrased that, I’m guessing not many.”

“Try almost none. The only ones I can think of are the Elven tribes of Bosquro, in Narria. They received a special charter after the Narrian conquest by Damian I.”

“Why the special treatment?”

“Well, I’m guessing it’s the same reason why the Emperor is making you that offer: because it’s an easier way to secure their loyalty than warfare. But that’s still an offer no other Emperor would make. Normally, only Humans can pledge fealty to the Emperor.”

Jackson huffed. “Cool. So the Empire is racist, to boot.”

“Well…” David swayed his head left and right. “Kinda, yeah. In some ways. But in many ways, they’re actually a lot more tolerant than other places. And they’re better than they were before. Nowadays it’s really just the Demons they don’t like, and it’s mostly for political reasons.”

“How grand of them,” Jackson said.

“Look, Jack, I get it. By our world’s standards, it’s kinda crappy. But that’s the thing: this is not our world. They have different cultures, different morals, and different values. We can’t expect them to see things from our perspective. And like I said: they’re getting better. The Emperor is actually more progressive than his predecessors; he’s even getting some flak from his dukes and counts because of this.”

“Damn, you really fell in love with the man.”

“He’s good people, Jack,” David said. “Maybe one of the best people in this world. And he has the power to change things for the better.”

“Guess I don’t need to ask you what you think I should do.”

“That’s up to you. But, yeah, if I was in your shoes, I’d take his offer.” With a chuckle, he added: “Hey, he might even make you a duke after the war is over. Lord Jackson of the house Pulver, duke of Vertrisia. Wouldn’t that be something?”

Jackson faked a smile, convincingly enough that his old friend smiled in turn before leaving the room. Koval left after him to go get his cot for the night, as well as a few supplies they might need. Jackson went to visit the rest of his group to make sure their accommodations suited them. They did; in fact, it was the first time any of them slept in a castle.

Seeing the sun poke through the clouds, Jackson decided to spend the afternoon teaching his squire how to use a sword. The boy had no knowledge of fighting at all, but tried to make up with lots of enthusiasm. Unfortunately, this enthusiasm got him a few bruises, and eventually led him to trip over his feet and fall, scraping his arm against a rock as he did. He immediately got back up and insisted on continuing, but Jackson decided otherwise.

Nothing else happened for the rest of the day. Jackson didn’t see the Emperor or David, both being apparently holed up in meetings all day long, until the late evening. David managed to find some free time the next morning to see his friend off as he and his group departed the castle.

“I hope we meet again soon,” David said.

Jackson hoped so as well. Moreover, he hoped that, when they did, they would still be on the same side.

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