The Pulver Chronicles – 37. Feed The Beast

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I expected,” Jackson said, rubbing the scar on his left hand.

He was standing by a depression about three feet deep, at the bottom of a motte. Alizana and Sathariel were by his sides, their expressions similarly gloomy. Above them, the wood-and-stone keep atop the motte was like a silent vigil to the spectacle they were witnessing. Jackson let his eyes wander; his mind needed a break. The sun was shining nicely, though its rays were every so often cut by big white clouds. A small wind was softly brushing the blades of grass, bringing the mild weather down a few degrees. Birds were singing from the branches of nearby trees, and Jackson heard what he believed to be the mating call of a deer.

Jackson would have wanted nothing more than to continue looking at the landscape, but they weren’t here for sight-seeing. And, as awful as it was, the scene below them was impossible to ignore. Much like a train derailing, one just couldn’t look away.

The ones at the bottom of the pile almost seemed to be sleeping, Jackson thought, laying down there side by side, their faces void of any expression, their limbs tossed around haphazardly. Were it not for the terrible paleness of their skin, the dried blood coating their clothing, and the exposed viscera, they could have looked peaceful. Crows and other animals had started to feast on the remains, meaning one of the bodies was missing an eyeball and part of the eyelid. Most of the people down there were men, but there were also quite a few women, and three children that Jackson could see. One looked to be about Koval’s age.

And then, there was the smell. Jackson tried as hard as he could to breathe through his mouth. Every time his nostrils caught wind of the smell, he felt like vomiting.

“They couldn’t even bury them,” Alizana muttered with a grimace. “They just found the first hole and tossed them in it.”

“We’re sure those are claw wounds, right?” Jackson asked.

“Yes. Hellhounds’ claws; I’d recognize their marks anywhere. There is no doubt about it: this is my sister’s work.”

“Fuck…” The young man’s head dipped.

“Aye. Sathariel, do you know how many are down there?

The young Demon cleared his throat, then answered: “One of my scouts counted them. There are twenty-seven bodies in total. Twelve of them are missing their heads; I think we know where they went.”

“Have you found out who these people were?”

“Some of them, yes. That woman was called Ladureal, she was marquess Polriel’s wife, and the mother of his four children.”

“I think we know where those children went too,” Jackson said, his voice coming out weak as if he was sick.

“So that’s how she did it,” Alizana said. “She said she had killed them in two ambushes.”

“Well, that was true,” Sathariel said. “First, she captured Lady Ladureal and her two youngest children as they were heading to the Imperial Cult’s local temple. The guards were slaughtered, but the woman and the children were taken alive. Then, she sent a ransom letter for the hostages, demanding that the marquess deliver the coin in person. The marquess did so, but only to ambush Neasa and her tribe. Unfortunately, Neasa was apparently preparing for this.

“We don’t know exactly what happened, but we can guess: the marquess and his men fell into a trap. Or, I believe, were led into one. The fight was short, but deadly. The marquess’ oldest son, who was fighting alongside him, died in action. The marquess himself survived, but was captured and executed after.”

“But so how did his wife and the rest of his children die?” Jackson asked. “Were they collateral?”

“No, they weren’t involved in the fight,” Sathariel explained. “My scouts have checked their bodies, and it’s obvious they were killed later -executed, in fact. So were a few maids and servants.”

“You’re shitting me…” Jackson rubbed his forehead with the bottom of his palm.

“Sadly, I’m not. We find traces of blood over there” he pointed at a spot at the bottom of the motte “meaning that’s probably where they did the deed.”

“As soon as they no longer needed them, they got rid of them,” Alizana said.

“Did they execute the marquess first or the children?” Jackson said.

“Difficult to tell,” Sathariel said. “Why?”

“Because I’ve got a nasty feeling they killed that guy’s family before his eyes.”

Both the Demon and the Hellhound turned to look at him. Alizana rubbed the bridge of her nose.

“For fuck’s sake…” 

She sighed, and contemplated the bodies again, sourness twisting her face.

“They wanted to make an example, I suppose,” Sathariel said. “Show the other marquesses what happens when you choose the Hexacracy.”

“Did they…” Alizana took a deep breath and tried again. “Were they tortured? Before they were killed, I mean.”

“The children and the wife? Not that we can tell. Their throats were sliced open from ear to ear. They probably died quickly.”

“Thank God for small miracles, I guess,” Jackson muttered. Shaking his head, he added: “All right, how about we get the fuck out of here? The others are probably getting impatient.”

“Not just yet,” Alizana said. “Let’s bury these people first. It’s the least we can do…”

Sathariel and Jackson agreed. With the help of the rest of their group -several Humans, Demons and Hellhounds on horses-, they began digging in the thankfully soft ground, and covered the bodies with dirt until no part of them was visible. It wasn’t much of a grave, but it was a lot more dignified than leaving them in the open, prey to the elements and the scavengers. Ardito was among their numbers. Jackson wondered if this massacre would inspire him to write a song, or to keep quiet; he hoped for the latter, there were enough sad songs out there. Koval also participated in the effort, in spite of Jackson’s objections. He hadn’t wanted the kid to witness this.

“I saw this sort of thing before, sir,” Koval said with a weak smile. “My mother, during the revolt back home, she… she would sometimes go through the corpses after fights, and… you know, get us what we needed. Sometimes, I would come with her.”

“I see,” Jackson said.

“We knew it was bad, and we made sure to bring lots of icons to be protected from the spirits, and to clean ourselves after, but we had to make a living, you know?”

Jackson nodded. Damn, and I thought he had it hard before… The kid glanced at the improvised mass grave.

“Our people did that?” he said.

“Not exactly our- Ah, well, yes, I guess so,” Jackson said.

“It was Neasa, right? What are we going to do about that?”

The young man sighed. “I have no idea.”

The subject of Neasa had continued to be a controversial one among Hellhounds, in no small part due to her more recent behavior. For instance, there was her contempt for the Humans and Demons who had been admitted into tribes, as well as for the tribes who had accepted them as members. She never bothered to hide it; oftentimes, she would simply refuse to address the non-Hellhounds tribemates, even when they were speaking to her. It seemed Jackson was the only one she spoke to, though only during war councils; it wasn’t out of respect for him either, she did it simply because she had no other choice, with him being Strategist.

Indeed, Neasa had been elected as one of the war chiefs, which meant among other things that Jackson had to deal with her presence during strategic meetings. This had the effect of making Jackson wish alcohol was allowed there. In addition to her… controversial opinions on warfare, the woman was headstrong and argumentative, and seemed to think of the word “compromise” as the worst kind of curse. She argued, Byron believed, to attrition, essentially pushing back until her opponents conceded something. One fight had already broken out as a result of her demeanor.

Initially, Jackson had hoped that this sort of thing would increase support against her, allowing him and Alizana to have better leverage to oppose her motions during the war councils. And it did, but regrettably, it also increased support in her favor. While there were many among Hellhounds who found her behavior galling and her beliefs appalling, there were also quite a few who approved of both. In fact, while most only thought of her as a necessary evil against the Hexacracy, some actually seemed to love her worst aspects. They admired her radicalism, her intransigence, and the violence she brought to the enemy. Worse yet, a few -including among the chieftains- were looking to emulate her. Neasa was apparently as good at creating allies as she was at creating enemies.

Well, her buddies are probably going to have a party after that, Jackson thought as he looked at the mass grave one last time. At least they didn’t eat them. This time.

The troop moved southeast, leaving Polran Keep behind them. Their next destination was Santsa, a small village north of Vertrisia. It was a recent addition to the Southern Alliance, having joined a month before summer, requesting protection against the Hexacracy. According to a raven Alizana had received on the way to Polran Keep, no news had been received from there recently, and the ravens sent there had returned without having delivered their messages, causing concern among war chiefs. Neither Sathariel’s scouts or the Elves’ had reported important troop movements nearby, and banditry was not known to be an issue in the region.

Alizana was unusually quiet during the journey, despite Jackson’s attempts at making conversation to distract her. Her thoughts were occupied, no doubt, by her sister and her actions. And most likely, those actions’ long-term consequences. The word would spread of what had been done at Polran Keep. People would blame the Hellhound Rebellion, and question the Southern Alliance. Was this how the Alliance protected the South? some would undoubtedly ask. If so, how were they any better than the Empire or the Hexacracy? Fear was not how Alizana and Jackson wished to expand and maintain the Alliance, not at all.

Byron’s story about Artyom came back to Jackson’s mind, but he chased it away.

After almost two days of travel, Santsa appeared on the horizon, on the flank of a steep hill. Jackson knew something was wrong even before he took out his binoculars to get a better look. He observed the village through his lenses; it looked empty. There were no people in the fields or elsewhere. The cow and the sheep were still in the pens, however; it looked like no one had tended to them in a while.

The group became very quiet as it got closer, and not a single sign of Human or Humanoid life could be found. Neither could a sign of death, for that matter: there was not a single body, outside the houses or inside. Everyone searched the village thoroughly, confused and worried. Scant traces of blood were found, as well as evidence of struggle here and there. According to Byron, it had been a brief, and very one-sided struggle; the victims likely only fought for a few moments before being subdued by stronger opponents.

“Were they killed?” Jackson thought-asked.

“If they were, it wasn’t here,” Byron said. “This is nowhere near enough blood for a mortal wound.”

Jackson finished searching one of the houses, and went to meet Sathariel outside. By the Demon’s expression, he had not found much of anything either. The young man then noticed Alizana, standing near the village center, her nostrils flaring, her eyebrows frowning. He knew that expression well: she had smelled something.

“What is it?” he said.

“A Human. I think.”

“Alive?” Sathariel said. “Where?”

“Alive. I’m not sure where.”

She roamed around for a bit, trying to find the origin of the scent. Jackson had always been amazed at the Hellhounds’ sense of smell. Through it, Hellhounds were able not only to locate someone, but to identify its race, its gender, its age range, and several other details from afar. Depending on training, proximity, and other factors, some could find out even more, and track a person from further away. One Hellhound, Riata, once astonished Jackson by guessing what he had had for lunch, just by smelling it on his breath from two feet away, hours after the meal.

“It is a Human,” Alizana said as she headed to the southern edge of the village. “A young one. Scared.”

“No kidding,” Jackson said.

She sniffed the side of a house, then kneeled down to smell a patch of grass. Then, she glanced around, her agitation indicating that she was getting closer. Her head abruptly turned towards a patch of bushes.

“This way,” she said.

Alizana moved towards the bushes, followed by Jackson, Sathariel, and two of the Demons accompanying them. Before they could push them away, Alizana suddenly recoiled, letting out a pained exclamation of disgust. Moments later, Jackson and Sathariel understood why, as a faint smell of ammonia hit their noses; faint for them, that was, but not for a Hellhound.

“A tanning pit,” Jackson realized.

Sathariel pushed past the bushes, revealing indeed a pit, about five feet wide and three feet deep, surrounded by several pieces of leather. The stench got stronger as they approached, though it remained faint enough that they decided the pit must not have been used in a while. Jackson dared to peer down in spite of his nose’s protestations, and saw a child, perhaps ten years old, sitting at the bottom. Her arms were surrounding her folded legs, her head retreated beneath her shoulders. Her dark brown hair was a bushy mess, and dark circles underlined her bloodshot eyes. She wore a dirty brown dress that reached the bottom of her calves, and a pair of wooden clogs. When she saw Jackson looking at her, she slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream of fear.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Jackson said soothingly, showing his hands. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

This only calmed the child somewhat, so Sathariel decided, seeing how gaunt she looked, to offer him some of the food he kept in his satchel. He took out a fruit and showed it to the child; the latter cupped her hands to receive it. She all but devoured it, taking bites so large she nearly choked.

“Help me get her out,” Jackson asked Sathariel.

They both held down their hands. After a long moment of hesitation, the child grabbed them, and they hoisted her out of the pit. Smart place to hide, Jackson thought, looking at the bottom. Most people wouldn’t even know it’s there, and those who do would rather not search a piss-soaked hole in the ground. He quickly examined the child to make sure she was unhurt; she was, but she could have used a bath -and a lot of soap.

“How long have you been in there?” Sathariel asked her.

The girl just shrugged.

“She doesn’t look so starved,” Byron said. “She must have poked out a few times for food.”

“Yeah…” Jackson thought-said. “Don’t want to think about what she must have done when she was thirsty, though.”

“Did you see what happened?” Sathariel said as they took the child away from the pit.

The kid didn’t answer, only stared at her feet.

“Let’s maybe keep the questions for later,” Jackson told him.

They guided the child to the front of a nearby house, where she sat on a tree stump. Jackson went to retrieve a bucket of water from the village’s well, and managed to find a cup. Meanwhile, Sathariel gave the child more food. She ate and drank in silence for a while, the dreadful pallid color of her skin slowly giving way to something more wholesome. Well, wholesome may not have been the right word. While physically she seemed to be doing better, there was still a lot of tension in her facial traits, and her eyes were still staring vacantly into space; Jackson barely even saw her blinking.

With patience, Jackson managed to get her to communicate. At first, she would only nod, shake her head, or shrug her shoulders for answers, but eventually he managed to get her to talk by giving his name and asking for hers. It was Nola. With some more soothing, Jackson managed to get some information from her.

It had happened several nights ago, Nola wasn’t sure how many. She had been woken up from her sleep by her father, who had whispered to her to keep quiet and dressed her in a hurry. He had then sneaked her out of the house, and told her to go to the tanning pit, and to hide there. Nola had protested, but her father had vehemently insisted. He looked very scared, she said, more scared than she had ever seen him.

They had left the house. As they sneaked to the tanning pit, her father had suddenly noticed something. Before Nola could ask what it was, he had told her to run to the tanning pit. “Run now, don’t look back!” he had told her. She had done just that, but before she passed the bushes, she heard her father shout, and had to look back. It had taken every ounce of will she had not to scream as she saw a man attack her father, wrapping his arm around his throat. The father had struggled with desperate energy. Suddenly, there had been a horrible cracking sound, and her father had gone limp, before being dragged away.

Jackson asked if Nola could describe the man. After being calmed down with another apple, she did. He was taller and larger than her father, and clad in armor “like the knights”. That armor was described as black and “shiny grey”. It was big and bulky, and covered every part of the man’s body. The helmet was round and completely black. “It was like he had no face,” Nola said. Jackson noticed Sathariel’s eyebrows jumped up at the description.

She had jumped down the pit and hid. She didn’t know how long it was until she dared to look out, but by then the village was empty and quiet. The strange men in armor were gone, and so were the villagers. Still, she remained at the bottom of the pit until dawn, then until the zenith, and only when she was too hungry did she dare to leave the safety of her hideout to get something to eat. She came back as quickly as she could, fearing the men in armor would come back to take her too.

“You’re safe now,” Jackson said. “Those men aren’t coming back for you.”

Nola remained quiet. Jackson expected her to ask where her father was, but she didn’t. Jackson nicely inquired about her mother. Nola said she was “gone”. Not during that night, but during the previous autumn.

“No wonder she’s not asking about her father,” Byron said. “She already knows. She’s already been through this with her mother.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jackson said, only realizing afterwards he had said it out loud. Internally, he continued: “First Koval, now her. How many more orphans are there out here?”

He asked the child if she had any other family, possibly in some other place. She simply shrugged. Great, Jackson thought. The decision was quickly made to bring Nola back to the Vertrisian Forest. The child agreed without protest, and without much emotion either. It physically hurt Jackson to watch her: she looked empty, haggard; a hollowed-out shell of a person. She’s still young, he thought. Maybe she’ll get better. Maybe she’ll even forget that night. So Jackson hoped at least.

The village was searched once more, but there was truly no one else left aside from Nola. No men, no women, no children. The only trace of life they found was the corpse of a pet dog, whose throat had been cut, probably so he wouldn’t alert his owners. Jackson’s heart ached at the sight.

“Jesus, who did this?” Jackson asked Sathariel once Nola was out of earshot. “You know who she was describing, don’t you?”

“Aye, I do,” the young Demon said. “Full suit of armor, with black and silver color… Those are the warrior-monks of the Order of Anjramaynya.”

Jackson had heard the name once or twice before.

“Aren’t those, like, some kind of elite soldiers? Commanded by an Archdemon… Yerleg, right?”

“Archpriest Yerleg, that’s right. And they’re more than soldiers. From what I’ve heard of them, they’re monsters. Fanatically devoted to their religion, and fully dedicated to the art of war. They are recruited in their childhood, they say, and go through the most arduous training, a training so hard the weakest recruits end up dying of exhaustion or of their wounds. They say they are fed foxflower liqueur from a young age, which makes them resistant to pain.

“And it isn’t just their bodies that are trained, but their minds as well. I’ve been told the priests mold their minds until they can accept nothing but their beliefs, to the rejection of any other. They are made to hold any form of heresy or apostasy in absolute contempt, to be treated with violence. Many of us in the Hexacracy are Armilusians, but not one is as devout a believer as the warrior-monks. Even the Saoshyanites fear for their lives in the presence of those creatures, and they are merely a not-so-distant offshoot of the Cult of the Armilus; no more heretics than the order of Anjramaynya, at least in theory…

“I’ve never seen them in action, but I heard many stories about that. Before battle, they take a special drug which turns them into mindless beasts, immune to fear and hungry for violence. Only Yerleg and his priests can command them in such a state, but their obedience is absolute. They’d rip off their own arms if ordered so. They then throw themselves into the enemy, no matter their numbers or the odds, and can easily take on armies twice or thrice as numerous. Their skill for battle is second only to their love for it.”

“They sound fun,” Jackson said. “What do the priests do with them when there’s no battle going on? Shackle them in a dungeon until the drug runs out of their systems so they won’t kill each other?”

“Probably,” Sathariel chuckled.

Jackson reported his attention to the empty buildings. “Why the hell would they attack this village? Sounds like they’re the cream of the cream of warriors. Why waste them on this?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe that’s how they do their recruitment. Or maybe…” He licked his lips. “Maybe this is about us.”

“Us?”

“The Southern Alliance. Remember, we have now scored two decisive victories against the Hexacracy. The first was humiliating, and the second killed an Archdemon. We knew they would start taking us more seriously after that. And nothing is more serious than the Order of Anjramaynya. Actually, I’ve heard that they’re not even capable of humor.”

“Okay, but how is attacking one single village harming us? There must have been… what? Fifty people here, including the children?”

Sathariel scratched the bridge of his nose with his thumb. Jackson knew that gesture: the Demon had thought of something, and not something good.

“What if it wasn’t one single village?”

“What d’you mean?”

“The warrior-monks number over between one and two thousand people; I do not have more precise figures. This raid took a hundred of them at the most, and I doubt it was that many.”

“You’re thinking maybe they hit other places at the same time,” Jackson said, a chill running down his spine.

“Maybe not simultaneously, but in the same period of time, yes.”

“Ah, shit. We’ll have to send couriers to all the villages on the border. And probably some patrols, too.”

“I agree,” Sathariel said. “I’ll have my people focus on Yerleg and those warrior-monks of his.” With a shudder, he added: “I really don’t like this. If they only send a few dozen of their own at a time, it will be very difficult to track them.”

“They’ve got to have some kind of a base from where they plan their raids,” Jackson said. “Maybe if we find that, it’ll be easier.”

“Aye, maybe.”

“You say these guys wear a complete suit of armor that covers everything. Maybe if we get one, we can infiltrate them.

“I doubt it’ll work. Those warrior-monks have ways to recognize one of them, secret codes and gestures only they are privy to.”

The group prepared for the journey back, scurrying the village for some food; Jackson usually frowned upon such looting, but in this case, the goods would have gone to waste anyway. Nola was placed on a saddle with one of the riders, a Demon named Alestel. The young man gave one last look to the empty buildings before getting back on Florid, and wondered once again what happened to the inhabitants. Were they all killed, shanghaied, or sold as slaves somewhere? If it was the first one, was it a quick death, or…? Jackson clenched his teeth as Byron pointed out that the ambiguity was probably the point. The warrior-monks intended for them to wonder what had happened to those people, and assume the worst.

“But I don’t think they were killed,” he said. “If they were, the warrior-monks would have just done the deed right there and then, even if they didn’t leave the bodies behind.”

“Unless they needed to sacrifice them to their god, or something,” Jackson thought-said. “Christ. Have you ever fought against fanatics before?”

“Not really. I’ve met some during my time in Africa, but… Well, they weren’t our enemies.”

“Any advice?”

Byron took a deep breath, then said: “Don’t expect any mercy, or half-measures. They’re called fanatics because they’ll always fight to the bitter end, and then some. Prepare yourself for the worst.”

“I feel like I’ve been doing that for a while now…”

Back at the Neha camp, the news of Santsa’s attack caused a lot of commotion through the tribe. Evidently, quite a few of the Hellhounds knew of the warrior-monks as well. One of them, Yana, was incensed at the idea of kidnapping unarmed peasants.

“Let them come here, and try to kidnap us!” she said. “We’ll see if they truly don’t know fear.”

“They won’t come here, I don’t think,” another tribemate, Alna, said. “At least, not at first. First, they’re going to bleed us, village after village.”

Yana responded by spitting out something that sounded like “cowardice”.

As to the revelation of Neasa’s actions at Polran Keep, they predictably turned the commotion into outright anger. Several Hellhounds spoke of removing Neasa from the war council, or even exiling her from Vertrisia. None had the power to do so, of course, and in fact several were convinced it wouldn’t happen. Yana suggested taking her protestations to Neasa herself and giving her a piece of her mind, by way of her fists. She looked serious about this, but she was discouraged by the others, who pointed out that Neasa would probably not fight fair.

In a way, Jackson was happy at this reaction. Neasa had gained supporters in many places, but none, apparently, in the Neha tribe. Alizana didn’t need that, he thought. The Neha chieftain, as said, was already negatively affected by her sister’s actions. As he went to join her in their hut, he thought of how her behavior had changed over the last few weeks. She had become withdrawn, sometimes to the point of coldness, spending most of her time doing chores alone. She was less talkative, even to Jackson and Sathariel; when she did talk, her speech was laconic and toneless. This symptom Jackson thought the most worrying, more even than the lack of intimacy between them. Sure, it wasn’t great that weeks had passed since he had sex with the woman he loved, but he understood she simply wasn’t in the mood, and he certainly understood why. But the lack of passion in her words… That cut deep.

Of course, Jackson had tried to improve her mood. During the day, he would hang out with her as much as he could, unless she made it clear she preferred to be alone -she almost never did, thankfully. At night, as he cuddled with her, he often whispered in her ear that things would get better. She never said anything, but he could feel her relaxing before she finally went to sleep.

Nola was placed in the care of a Human mother and a Demon father, both members of the Mieto tribe. There was some sadness in Sathariel’s eyes as he bid her goodbye and watched her leave. Jackson passed an arm around his shoulders.

“You really want kids, don’t you?” he said to his friend.

“Yeah…” he sighed. “I actually thought of keeping her and raising her myself for a moment. Though I can no longer have children of my own, adoption is a possibility. It’s obvious, even, given how many children the war has orphaned. But no. This wouldn’t have been reasonable. Do you see me raising children, right now? I am the spymaster, that is what I must focus on. Like Alizana said, this isn’t the time.”

“There will be a time, Seth,” Jackson gently said. “The war will not last forever.”

Sathariel’s eyes grew distant, and his lips drooped a bit. Jackson knew that look: his Deomn friend was trying to appear strong, but his mask was failing.

“What’s wrong?” Jackson said.

“I- It’s just… How long will this go on?” he asked, his voice lowering to a whisper. “The war. The violence. The killing. How many more battles will we have to fight through? How many more bodies will we have to bury? How many more children…”

He ran his hand up his face, then over his hair to smooth it down.

“I took to spying instead of fighting because I wanted to keep away from all of this. It worked, somewhat. But even keeping at a distance, I still don’t know that I can keep up with this for much longer. You say this won’t last forever, but how long must we endure? How many years?”

“I… I don’t know, Seth,” the young man answered. “I wish I did. But we’re trying everything we can to end this shit as soon as possible, and we’ll keep on trying. That I can promise you. We can do this, Seth. You, me, and Alizana. And, err, Byron too.”

Slowly, Sathariel’s mouth turned into a smile.

“There you go,” Jackson said, smiling in turn. “Now, you wanna get drunk?”

“Maybe later. I have some work to do.”

Over the course of the next few weeks, Sathariel coordinated with his people and the Elven scouts. Communications were sent to the villages at the border of the Southern Alliance; people were sent to those who didn’t respond soon. Eventually, it came to light that Sathariel’s worries were justified: in addition to Santsa, three other villages had been attacked in the same manner. The tactic had been the same every time: infiltration by night, and kidnapping of the inhabitants without much bloodshed.

Two of the villages, much like Santsa, were virtually defenseless, and had not offered much resistance. The warrior-monks had picked their targets with care, indicating that they had planned these raids well in advance. The third, however, had apparently received early warning of the attack: one of the warrior-monks had, according to Sathariel’s spies, been spotted by wild geese who shouted the whole village awake. Villagers had been able to fight back with improvised weapons, mostly farming tools, but ultimately their resistance proved irrelevant in the face of an overwhelming force. Still, they were able to kill at least two warrior-monks and wound several others. Unfortunately for Sathariel’s purposes, the bodies had been removed, along with their armors and weapons. Once again, the warrior-monks had been as clean as they could be. Only the amount of Demonic blood, combined with the fact that all of the villagers were Humans and Orcs, indicated that several of them had indeed died there.

Those facts were submitted to the next war council, who agreed without much difficulty to improve the defenses of border villages. Putting this decision into practice proved less easy. Building defensive walls around the villages, the first part of the agreed-upon plan, was not too complicated, as wood was abundant in the South; hiring builders and architects with the proper knowledge was costly, but necessary. The really problematic part was garrisoning those villages with enough warriors to offer a proper defense, and possibly deter an attack. This meant mobilizing nearly three hundred Hellhounds, who then would have to remain posted there indefinitely. This additional strain on manpower could prove a problem, especially as the war council agreed these attacks were just the first phase of a strategy by Yerleg; the second phase would probably be a larger attack, possibly right in the Rebellion headquarters in Vertrisia. If that was true, sending these warriors away could leave them vulnerable.

The hiring of more mercenaries was considered to palliate the issue. However, the military budget was already strained; the war chiefs thus agreed to ask Atvello for more money. Jackson took this opportunity to submit the hiring of the Children of Nayros to the vote. He argued that they could be useful in tracking the origin of the attacks, personally testifying as to their skill. Motion was approved. Surprisingly, Neasa didn’t oppose it; she later explained that she didn’t care to protect Human villages with Hellhounds anyway.

In addition to these defensive measures, the war chiefs agreed to be proactive in their struggle against Yerleg and his fanatics. As Jackson had suggested, the attackers would be tracked back to where they had come from. Byron believed the warrior-monks had some sort of base in the Southern Marches; assuming the villagers had been taken alive, it would have been too difficult to transport them all the way back to the Hexacrat lands, especially in the midst of a war. 

Then, the subject of Polran Keep was brought up. Inevitably, this led to another dispute among war chiefs. There were those, thankfully still a majority, who condemned the execution of an entire family, including the children. But then, like Jackson had predicted, there were also those who either believed that sort of cruelty served a purpose, that of deterring other marquesses from joining the Hexacracy, or that it was a warranted form of revenge. Most of them had the decency to seem bothered by those actions, but at least one of them, war chief Dalli from the Nakli tribe, appeared to not even care. Alizana almost lost it on that last one.

“How are we any better than the Hexacracy if we resort to that?” she nearly screamed, leaning over the table.

“We are not, that’s the point,” Dalli shouted back. “By showing ourselves to be just as dangerous as the Archdemons, we teach our enemies to fear us. We show them that we are not weak, that we are not prey!”

Prey, Jackson thought. She’s repeating Neasa’s rhetoric. That’s not worrying or anything.

“We show our allies that we are not any better than our enemies,” Aleo said, her scarred ear fluttering angrily. “Most of them will not stay in the Alliance if we approve of such monstrosities.”

“Then let them leave,” Neasa said with a shrug. “See if they can make it on their own. They bring us nothing, and cost us warriors that would be better employed elsewhere.”

“Nothing?” Jackson said. “They’re the reason we have some fucking food all through the year, including in the winter.”

“Why are we discussing this anyway?” Neasa went on, ignoring him. “One of the conditions for my joining was that I would be allowed to kill any Hexacrat I find.”

“That didn’t apply to the damn children!” Alizana said.

“I told you I wouldn’t take any more slaves,” she retorted, the shadow of a smirk on her lips.

Jackson managed to hold Alizana back before she threw herself at her sister. Hoping to cut the debate short, he called for a vote on whether to condemn the actions of Neasa’s tribe, specifically the unmotivated killings of the marquess’ family and servants. Sadly, that just intensified the debate. Even the chiefs who disapproved of those killings argued about what such a condemnation would entail, and how it would be applied. Jackson realized there had never been a precedent of a tribe violating the rules agreed by the chieftains or the war chiefs. There had been a few examples of individuals doing so, and being punished accordingly, usually by being exiled, but never had an entire tribe been punished. Several war chiefs were in fact reluctant to create such a precedent. 

Eventually, the debate settled on not punishing an entire tribe, but rather only its chieftain, who was supposed to be responsible for the behavior of her tribemates. Aleo proposed that the punishment be that said chieftain be deprived of her title, and another take her place. Hopeful, Jackson seconded that suggestion, but unfortunately it only added fuel to the fire. Even several of Neasa’s detractors were opposed to the idea that the war council should be allowed such power over the tribes. Only the members of a tribe could decide who their chieftain was, and that was a rule the Hellhounds held on to with vigor. That precedent, the war chiefs were not keen on creating either.

I’m starting to hate democracy, Jackson said to himself as the debate raged on, especially as he had the feeling it was headed nowhere. He was right: after maybe half an hour of arguments and counterarguments, the motion was put to a vote, and was defeated by one vote. What was most frustrating was that many of the people present had abstained. Abstention was usually rare during war councils, and never exceeded one or two war chiefs.

It was deemed preferable to end the council at that point, as passions were running hot. Jackson was especially worried that Alizana, usually one the most level-headed people in these councils, might get into a fight with her sister. Everyone left, save for Jackson, Alizana, and Sathariel.

“We’re going to have to find a way to convince the war chiefs to take a stand, next time,” Jackson thought-said to Byron.

“From what I can tell,” Byron said, “many of them are angered by Neasa’s actions, but not so much that they’re willing to go against one of their core principles. Maybe another such massacre or two will give them the push they need to take a stand.”

“Maybe, but more massacres is exactly what we’re trying to avoid. Shit, what if she goes after the Empire, next? She doesn’t like them either, as I recall. If she attacks an Empire-aligned marquess, we can kiss our truce goodbye.”

“For now, at least, she seemed to be focused on the Hexacracy. And, unfortunately, the lack of punishment for what she did at Polran Keep will likely serve to encourage her.”

“What is Byron saying?” Alizana asked.

Apparently, Jackson had a particular expression whenever he spoke to Byron, one Alizana had long since learned. He told her what they had discussed so far.

“Well, he’s right about that,” she said. “Neasa must feel vindicated now. The most she got for her crime was our disapproval.” She kicked the table with a curse. “Who knows what she’s going to do next? Slaughter an entire village, maybe!”

“I can still task some of my people with observing her and her tribe,” Sathariel said.

“No,” Alizana said.

“Look, I understand you disapprove of spying on your own people, but-”

“And I haven’t changed my mind about that,” she sharply retorted. “What’s more, if the chieftains were to learn that I spy on one of them, I will lose their support.”

“To Neasa’s benefit, probably,” Jackson sighed.

Alizana leaned over the table again, bowing her head and closing her eyes as she took several deep breaths.

“Focus on the warrior-monks, for now,” she said. “If you can, find out what happened to the people they took.”

And so Sathariel and his spies kept working. Until the end of summer and over the course of the first month of autumn, they studied every trail, called in every one of their contacts, and analyzed every piece of information they could gather about Yerleg and his warrior-monks. In the meantime, the enemy did not rest. Three more villages were attacked, much in the same manner. They once again targeted the weakest links in the Southern Alliance’s defense: those villages were the farthest away from the Vertrisian Forest, were sparsely populated, and had no walls and no garrison. 

The last part was only true for the first two villages. The third one, Gadaun, had recently been sent a small force of fifty Hellhound warriors to insure its protection. This wasn’t out of pure luck: one of the first things Sathariel and Byron had done at the end of the last war council was establish a list of possible future targets for the warrior-monks, based on the way they selected said targets and some additional intelligence Sathariel’s spies had gathered. Unfortunately, the list was not short. Due to the lack of manpower, they then had to choose which ones were most likely to be attacked. They had gotten one correct; they would have gotten two, but the other force they had sent did not reach their village -Ulen- in time.

The Hellhounds protecting Gadaun had kept hidden, choosing to camp in the nearby forest rather than inside the village. It had been a long fortnight for the warriors, they had to stand watch through the nights, but still keep an eye open through the days. Furthermore, they had to stay under the cover of the woods, only sending a few Human scouts, disguised as  simple peasants, out to check out the village’s vicinity. But they remained patient, and, eventually, their patience paid off.

A party of about thirty people, clad in black and silver armor, had been detected, coming from the northwest. They had been travelling away from the roads, guided by a scout apparently recruited from the Southern population, and who seemed to know the terrain well. The Hellhounds had only had a few hours to prepare for the incoming attack. Half of them had gone to hide in the village, in caches created specifically for that purpose, while the other half was waiting in the forest, with the villagers who had been evacuated. In addition, several wooden blocks had been placed in the beds, to give the illusion that they were occupied.

Then, it had been a matter of waiting. The warrior-monks had entered the village, moving slowly, and quietly in spite of their heavy armors. The trap had sprung as soon as they entered the buildings. The Hellhounds had jumped out of their hideouts, striking the enemy with both strength and speed. The warrior-monks had taken several casualties initially, but had adapted fast. Based on what was known of the warrior-monks, the defenders were not expecting them to turn tail and flee once they realized they had been trapped, and indeed they had not. They had fought with skill and determination, even when the second half of the Hellhound warriors had jumped out of the forest, putting the numbers on the defenders’ side, and half-encircling the warrior-monks.

The warrior-monks had certainly lived up to their reputation. A single one of them could stand his own against a Hellhound, even a veteran with years of fighting experience. Fear had no sway over them, it had seemed, and neither did pain. Decla, the Hellhound who had previously accompanied Jackson during his trip in Vrittion, later compared her experience to her fight against the zombies. At one point, a warrior-monk had lost his helmet, then got his face terribly slashed by a Hellhound’s claws, to the point where part of his nose and one of his eyes had been lost, yet he had kept on fighting as if it had been but a bruise.

Not one of them had surrendered. Even the legionnaires at Atvello had not been so unshakable. The warrior-monks had kept on battling even when it had become manifest they would not win. Even capturing one of them alive had proved impossible: some of them at risk of being made prisoners had chosen to take their own lives, pulling a knife from their belt and stabbing themselves under the chin in a way that seemed like an ingrained ritual.

In the end, all thirty-four warrior-monks were killed, along with fifteen Hellhounds; an additional ten Hellhounds were wounded, one of whom at least would not be able to fight ever again. The scout was captured, but his interrogation revealed nothing of interest; he knew nothing of the warrior-monks, or of their base of operations; as to the reason he was helping them, it was simply money. None of the villagers had been harmed, though several of the buildings would need some repairs.

“Not a bad day overall,” Sathariel said as he told the report of the skirmish to Jackson and Alizana. “After this, the warrior-monks will probably have to change tactics.”

“I think they would have changed tactics anyway,” Byron said, borrowing Jackson’s body for a moment.

“Why is that?” Alizana said.

“Those attacks didn’t cause much damage; the victories they scored were only psychological. This was not their end goal. I believe these attacks were just the first phase of their plan.”

“What was the point then?” the Hellhound asked.

“Test our mettle, maybe?” Sathariel suggested. “See how we react. Or maybe try to take the Alliance apart piece by piece, like Namtar did.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Byron said. “The fact that they captured all these people alive whenever they could… That’s a lot of extra work. They’ll have to detain these people, and feed them. No… I think they plan to use these people.”

“Use them? How?” Alizana said.

Byron brushed his knuckle under his chin -rather, Jackson’s knuckle and Jackson’s chin.

“No idea. They’re just peasants from remote villages, so ransoming them is out of the question, and so is interrogating them for intelligence. Do they plan to use them as human shields in battle? Hmm, no. Too inconvenient. Maybe Sathariel was right, and this is how they gather new recruits.”

“Maybe,” Alizana said. “Or…” She gnawed on her bottom lip, then asked Sathariel: “Are Yerleg and his priests known to use the Forbidden Arcanes?”

“I… Maybe?” Sathariel said with a shrug. “Yerleg is an Archdemon. I assume he at least dabbles in these Arcanes like all the other Archdemons. Why? Do you think he means to use these people…”

“As magical fodder?” she said. “Possibly.”

“It would make sense, unfortunately,” Byron said.

“Well, what’s the idea, then?” Alizana said. “To raise a small army of undead, and let them loose upon the Southern Marches? Create chaos, and force us to spread our armies to hunt them all down, maybe?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Sathariel said. “The undead are hardly disciplined soldiers. Only trained necromants can control them, and that control can easily slip; you can only hold a rabid beast on a leash for so long. Without that, the undead are just as likely to attack Hexacrats as our own people.”

“What else, then?” she said.

Sathariel sighed and brushed his hair back; Jackson noticed it was getting long again. “When it comes to magic, I am hardly a scholar. Especially with the Secret Arcanes -that is, the Forbidden Arcanes. There could be a wealth of powers they grant access to that I can’t even conceive of.”

“Speaking of which,” Byron said, “do you know what the First Forbidden Arcane is?”

“Eh?”

“The First Forbidden Arcane. The Second Forbidden Arcane is necromancy, playing with life and death, and so on. But what is the First?”

The Demon’s mouth went slack, his eyes distant. “I certainly do not know that. But it’s… Yeah, it’s a good question. I’ve only heard a few people talk about it, mostly to speculate. Something more powerful than the Second, I’m told. One priest I’ve met told me the First Forbidden Arcane grants you the powers of the gods. Or a power similar to the gods’.”

“Or a direct connection to the Divine,” Alizana said, amused. Regaining her seriousness, she added: “We could speculate all day and all night about what Yerleg is planning, but that will not lead us anywhere. What we need is intelligence.”

“My people are working on that,” Sathariel said. “As are yours.” He nodded at Jackson-Byron. “Those Children of Nayros. They’re rather good, by the way.”

“For sure,” Jackson said, getting back in command.

The Children of Nayros had finally been hired at the end of summer; supposedly, Marrmad had offered a “brotherly” discount on their services. Sadly, Jackson had so far been too busy to meet with them, between his work as strategist and his training of Koval, and so had they. Their main objective was finding out the warrior-monks’ purported base of operations in the Marches, using their knowledge of the region and their experience with tracking.

As Alizana and Byron had foreseen, there were no more attacks on villages. The warrior-monks remained quiet for over a month after Gadaun. So quiet the war chiefs were getting worried. All agreed Yerleg was preparing something, possibly something big. He had the reputation of being just as fanaticized as the members of his order, if not more so. Now that he had targeted the Southern Alliance, it was a given he would not give up until it was destroyed or he and every one of his warrior-monks were killed. 

Additional sentry posts were built around the western portion of the Vertrisian Forest, filling any possible gaps in their defence. Furthermore, scouting parties were sent regularly around Vertrisia. Should any troops approach the forest, Alizana wished to be warned as soon as possible. Byron believed a direct attack on the forest was still unlikely, on account of how risky it would be for the invader, but he agreed it was a possibility, especially with an enemy who didn’t fear death. Jackson also tasked Tezrian with using her scrying to keep a lookout. Finding Yerleg was impossible, as the Archdemon was naturally using protection against that sort of magic -and presumably others-, but spotting and tracking groups of warrior-monks travelling was doable.

After another couple of weeks of waiting, the scouts began reporting unknown groups around Vertrisia, observing the forest from a distance. They were likely scouting parties as well. While none of them wore the signature armor of the order of Anjramaynya, there was little doubt as to who sent them. At that point, it was clear both parties were seeking out the other’s headquarters, planning to strike the enemy at the heart. But it soon appeared that Yerleg’s scouts were doing something more than just watching. Several of them were reported using small rocks to create strange round shapes on the ground, before reciting an odd chant above it. After they were gone, the Rebellion’s scouts made sure to reproduce the shapes on pieces of parchment. These were shown to Tezrian and to Enita, who both confirmed what was already suspected: the shapes were part of a magical ritual. Neither the priestess nor the sorceress were able to determine what the ritual aimed to accomplish, however, nor could they say whether it pertained to one of the Forbidden Arcanes. What they were certain of, was that it was but the prelude to something. Something big and nefarious, given the number of those shapes and the fact that they roughly formed a circle around the Vertrisian Forest. Byron inquired whether the warrior-monks were indeed preparing anything at all; those could have just been a form of psychological warfare, he suggested. Both Tezrian and Enita considered that unlikely: brought on the sites of several of these shapes, they could sense the magic emanating from them.

The Hellhounds grew agitated at the news that they were being targeted by some unknown magic. Many tribemates and chieftains demanded something be done against the warrior-monks, and fast. The circles were methodically destroyed, but it was just a symbolic gesture: Enita was of the opinion that they had already served their purpose, whatever it was. Agitation continued to brew all through the fall, as Yerleg went back to seemingly being inactive. Unsurprisingly, Neasa worked to take advantage of it, suggesting that the Hellhounds went on the offensive immediately. Many snarkily asked her where exactly she wanted to attack.

“Everywhere where the enemy is,” she replied calmly when she was questioned during a feast. “My sister has still not found where the warrior-monks are situated, but we know of several Marches allied with the Hexacracy. Any of them could house Yerleg and his minions. Someone knows where they are. I say we strike again and again until their lips come loose. We Hellhounds are not born to be reactive, or worse yet inactive. We are warriors; let us take action!”

Jackson wondered, as he often did, whether Neasa truly believed that she was saying, or whether this whole philosophy was just an excuse to indulge in her worst instincts.

“By killing more children?” Litu, war chief of the Tulu tribe, spat.

“By doing what it takes! Have you not learned yet? This is war. Wrath alone will defeat our enemy, not mercy.”

“Absolutely,” another war chief, Mali of the Rini tribe, said.

“If you truly believe that,” Aleo said, “then by all means, take your most angered tribemates, and go strike at the Legion right now. Maybe Elyonn will agree to a duel! We know where he is, after all.”

Jackson smiled at Aleo. The war chief and former chieftain of the Mieto tribe (she had abandoned the second title when elected to the first) had always made it clear where she stood when it came to Neasa. She despised Neasa’s appetite for violence and destruction, and while she had never resorted to insult -nor had she ever deigned to respond to her insults-, she had never hesitated to take stances against her during councils.

“You would love that, wouldn’t you?” Neasa said back. “To see me handle the enemy alone, while you sit back and watch. You’d probably be glad to see me and many of your sistren killed.”

“Killed? But you said wrath alone will defeat our enemy. Do you not hate them enough, then?”

Someone chuckled. Neasa pursed her lips. Aleo carried on:

“Or is it perhaps that there is more to war than brutality? Something like tactics, maybe, or even a strategy? If so, then rushing in without thought would only serve our enemy.”

Neasa remained impassive at the argument, but Mali had a visible hesitation.

“As to those peasants that you think of slaughtering,” Aleo said, “do you not realize that the Hexacracy cares as much about them… Well, as you do?”

“Be careful who you compare me to,” Neasa said, her voice calm in spite of the hint of a threat.

“You are the one who drew the comparison,” Alizana intervened. “You yourself said we needed to match the Hexacracy in terms of violence.”

Neasa’s lupine ears slowly folded down as her jaw clenched.

Thankfully, the debate did not escalate further. Neasa remained adamant in her opinions, but her allies proved more tepid. Aleo and Alizana’s arguments had been effective. In the end, she did not obtain the votes necessary for her motion to pass. Jackson tried not to be too gleeful when he saw the glare Neasa threw at those she expected to support her. This is not the end of it, he thought somberly. She’s gonna try again. But at least we managed to delay her, hopefully for a long enough time that we can deal with Yerleg without her turning everybody berzerk… or going on another spree.

And indeed things went back to something resembling calm for a while. People were still anxious about Yerleg, and at times that anxiety was almost palpable, but Alizana managed to keep it under control. At least for the most part. Sathariel shared with Jackson some of his worries that several of Neasa’s allies were spreading rumors of her indecision and her inaction concerning the warrior-monks. According to him, their objective was to erode Alizana’s standing among her people. He couldn’t tell whether it was working yet, but was certain it would eventually grant Neasa more votes in the next councils.

“Can’t we, like, spread some counter-rumors or something?” Jackson suggested. “Tell people Alizana’s got a plan for the warrior-monks, that she’s working on it day and night.”

It was the truth. Well, mostly: while she was indeed spending many days and quite a few sleepless nights on figuring out how to deal with the impending threat, she had yet to come up with an actual plan. The same went for Byron. The lack of information was the key issue: they did not know where to strike, and did not know how either. It was now certain the warrior-monks had some sort of base in the Marches, not too far away from the Southern Alliance, but what that base was was still anyone’s guess. A castle? A fortified camp? A cave? If it was a castle, assaulting it would prove a difficult, if not impossible problem. The Alliance still didn’t have any siege weapons, and had very little experience with sieges overall. The only solution Byron could think of was to summon the Empire’s help. But then, the Empire would probably demand to occupy the castle they had helped take, strengthening their position in the Marches.

“We could do that,” Sathariel said. “And we should. I don’t know that it’ll make much of a difference, though. Not unless we actually come up with a plan soon.”

“We will,” Jackson said confidently. “In the meantime, we could also go negative. Spread some shit rumors about Neasa. God knows she’s given us enough material.”

“I think you know what Liz would say about that.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Jackson’s shoulders slumped. “It would probably make things worse, too. Folks are already divided enough, going that way might just turn the whole thing into a fucking powderkeg.”

The autumn went by, not as cold or rainy as the previous one, yet more subdued. In addition, a rather heavy fog came by a few times, sometimes lasting for days. Jackson thought it made the forest look pretty creepy, especially in the evenings; it didn’t help that the fog seemed to come out of nowhere. Well, to him. But apparently, the locals could predict it with some precision: first would come a light fog, then a couple of clear days, then heavy clouds as the temperature goes down, and finally a heavy fog. 

Once again, as winter approached, war slowed down. Hellhound warriors dispatched to assail Hexacrat convoys and supply trains came back to Vertrisia to spend the cold season among their tribemates and loved ones. Right as the last month of autumn -the month of Leaves, in the Imperial calendar- was about to end, Sathariel’s spies and the Children of Nayros came back with an important report: the warrior-monks’ base had finally been located.

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