The Pulver Chronicles – 38. Hell Of A Good Day To Die

This was shaping up to be one of the tensest and most animated war councils in living memory, and the competition was fierce. It had only been thirty minutes, and already one of the war chiefs had to be excused before a fist fight broke out. Everyone was on edge. Jackson could count on one hand the sentences that had been spoken without being interrupted. He had twice suggested that they take a break, but the war chiefs just wanted a decision to be made and the whole thing to be done with.

Of course, such energy was to be expected, given the subject of the debate: the warrior-monks of the Order of Anjramaynya. Or more specifically: their base of operations in the Southern Marches, recently uncovered by the joint efforts of Sathariel’s spies, the Elven scouts, and the Children of Nayros. Speaking of the latter, Marrmad was in fact present at the council, specially invited to represent the mercenary group.

The base was a fortified camp, located in the southwestern part of the march of Domilo, a region known for its rocky hills and low mountains. In fact, said camp had been built on an elevated valley between two rocky hills called the Broken Teeth. Access to the valley was difficult, possible by only two paths, and could even be perilous with bad weather. A watch tower had been built on the highest of the two hills, giving an excellent view of the surroundings. The scouts who had located the camp had had to be particularly careful not to be spotted, and in fact were not absolutely confident they hadn’t; they hadn’t been able to come anywhere near the camp, and could only guess as to its layout. 

On the positive side, the scouts had been able to confirm that the outer walls and gates were made out of wood, meaning simple rams would be able to breach them open. In addition, they had questioned some of the locals, who had revealed the existence of a network of caves in the region. They could not confirm beyond a doubt whether any of these caves led inside or under the fortified camp, however. Still, this was promising: several groups could use these to approach the camp undetected, assuming the warrior-monks weren’t aware of them.

Of course, exploiting this potential weakness would require additional investigation, which would take time. And many of the war chiefs did not want to wait that long. They wanted to attack the camp without delay. Chiefly among them was, to no one’s surprise, Neasa.

“How long do you think we have?” she said. “The warrior-monks are planning as we speak.  The time to strike is now, not next year!”

“Now?” Ratja, war chief of the Maja tribe and sister of its chieftain Kadja, said, incredulous. “You wish to attack on the eve of winter? The rains are growing worse every day!”

“The locals say the region is prone to landslides,” Sathariel pointed out. “If one happens as we try to assault the camp, it will be disastrous.”

“He’s right,” Jackson said. “And our warriors would be spotted miles away anyway. We have to use those caves.”

“Then fine, let’s do that now,” Culli said.

“It’s not that simple,” Sathariel said. “We don’t know their layout yet. We have to explore them first.”

“And how many months would that take?” another war chief, Teele, cried out. “Whatever sorcery the warrior-monks are preparing, it might be unfurled any day now! We need to attack as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s exactly what they want,” Jackson said. “For us to just attack head-on without thinking, and jump into the trap they laid for us.” He tapped his finger on the map on the table, which displayed a rough drawing of the camp and its surroundings, made by the scouts. “They sure picked the right spot for it.”

“He’s right,” Alizana said. Before she could say anything else, she was interrupted by her sister.

“The only trap I see here is inaction!” Neasa said. “I don’t know what curse Yerleg and his damned priests are preparing, but it’s a whole heap worse than assailing their fort, I’d stake my head on it.”

Jackson would have dined on Florid’s feces before he admitted it out loud, but she had a point.

“The caves are key,” Alizana said. “I suggest we have Sathariel and his spies gather as much information from the locals as they can about them, that’ll be faster than exploring them ourselves.”

“It would,” Sathariel said, “but even the locals only know so much. That network of caves is something of a maze, I’m told. Our warriors could end up getting lost in there.”

“How fast do you think you can get that done?” Jackson asked.

“I’m not sure. My people have already spoken to quite a few locals, so we might already have enough information. That mercenary Durnin also knows the region quite well. If we do have what we need, that’ll be a couple of days’ work. If not, maybe two or three weeks. The Elves allow us to use their ravens, so we won’t have to make the journey there and back.”

“So, two weeks,” Alizana said. To the war chiefs, she asked: “We can afford to wait two weeks, can’t we? If it gives us better odds against the warrior-monks.”

“Agreed,” Litu said. “Two weeks gives us time to prepare, as well.”

“Hold on,” Ratja said. “Those caves must not be very big. We won’t be able to send our whole armies through them.”

“Nor should we,” Byron said, taking over Jackson. “Only a small portion of our forces -a third, maybe just a quarter- will be sent through the caves. The majority will be attacking the fortified camp above ground, by the two paths.”

“They’ll be seen from a distance, we just said that,” Culli said impatiently.

“And thus the warrior-monks’ attention will be distracted from the caves, if they even know about them,” Ratja said, nodding with enthusiasm. “Yes. This can work.”

“I agree,” Alizana said.

“Me too,” Litu said. “I’d say we’re ready for a vote.”

The ayes had it. Surprisingly, Neasa didn’t vote against the plan, though she didn’t vote in its favor either, simply keeping her arms crossed while the other war chiefs were raising their paws. Guess that’s high praise, coming from her, Jackson thought.

The energy of the next days reminded Jackson of the prelude to the battle of Baluq, only much more intense. Like before, Longclaws prepared the groups under their command, training them for the tactics of the incoming battle, while Sharpfangs made sure they were fit for the fight, putting them through series of physical exercises through the day as well as a few surprise drills at night to ensure they could be ready at any given moment -another of Byron’s ideas. All that hard work had the beneficial effect of easing the tension, or at the very least channeling it into something constructive.

The first chills arrived about a week after the last war council, and with them more rains. Winter was near. The chieftains and the officers were forced to slow the exercises down, partly because the cold had a negative effect on the warriors’ mentality, and partly to let them recuperate.

Two weeks and two days precisely after the council, Sathariel and his people had finished their work. They had found one, maybe two caves who they believed either led inside the warrior-monks’ fortified camp, or passed just under it; if it was the latter, some digging might be necessary. At the same time, Byron and the Longclaws put the last touches to their battle plans.

“Do you think we’re ready, sir?” Koval asked Jackson after the latter had participated in one last training session with the Nehan warriors.

“As ready as we can be,” Jackson said, wiping the sweat off his neck.

“Good. Can’t say I’m not nervous, sir, even a bit scared to be honest, but I’ll not shame you.”

Jackson stared at him in surprise. “Wait. You’re not coming with us.”

“Why not, sir?” The boy frowned. “I’ve trained as well. For months, I have! You taught me how to use a sword, how to fight with my bare hands. I’m good now, you said it yourself. What was all that training if I can’t join you in battle?”

“Christ, kid, you’re fourteen!” Jackson exclaimed. “A battlefield is no place for kids.”

“I’ll be fifteen in the month of Rime! I’m all but a man already.”

Right. This world’s society had a weird- well, a different definition of adulthood. It also had no real conception of teenagehood. A boy aged fifteen was considered an adult de facto, and in fact boys that age could be conscripted in the army, though the practice was uncommon; Jackson had yet to meet any soldier that age on the battlefield, on either side, and he hoped he never would.

“I’m part of the Rebellion same as you, sir,” Koval insisted. “And I’m your squire. It’s my duty to fight alongside you. I told you, I’ve seen things like this before, sir.”

“It’s one thing to see people dying, it’s another to actually kill them!” Jackson said. He blinked, surprised by the anger in his words. The scar on his hand felt itchy again. “Look, just… Just listen to me, okay? Used to be, I thought kind of like the way you do. Like, joining the army was my duty. I mean, it’s not the only reason I joined, but… When they started training me, I kinda began thinking fighting would be cool and exciting. I wanted to be one of those badass special forces veterans I’ve been told about. I couldn’t wait for my first battle, my first kill.

“And then it happened. My unit and I, we were sent to that forest up in Vrittion. It was supposed to be an exercise. Then, we fell into a whole bunch of undeads, commanded by this necromant. It got bad. Really, really bad. I had this buddy, his name was Lawrence Willis.”

He pulled out his fallen comrade’s lighter and showed it to Koval.

“I saw him get killed by the undead. Then, when I tracked down the necromant, I saw him kill another of my buddies, Robert -we called him Bob. Eventually, pretty much all of our unit got killed, except me, David, and Bonnie. I found their bodies… I couldn’t even bury them.

“And I still see them, Koval,” Jackson continued. “I see their faces, I see their burnt corpses. I reckon I’ll see them until I die, even when I’m old and senile.”

He turned away from Koval, unable to stand the sorrow in the boy’s eyes. His fingers were rubbing his hand’s scar with such strength that it was almost painful.

“And that’s just the ones I watched die. But then, there’s also the ones I killed. Them, I… Honestly, I don’t remember all of them. I don’t think I even remember most of them.”

It didn’t help that a few of them had technically been killed by Byron, but he didn’t mention that. Koval wasn’t aware of Jackson’s… passenger, and telling him now would only serve to confuse him.

“But I remember enough. And… Shit, I’d like to pretend that I did what I did to protect my life or others, that I killed those folks because there was no other way… But really, I don’t know if that’s true. It probably is true, but I don’t know that it is, you see?”

He sighed.

“Maybe I’m not making much sense to you. Honestly, I’m having trouble understanding this myself. Look, Koval, the bottom line is: if I let you come with me to this, odds are you’ll lose something. Something you’ll never get back.”

Koval looked at loss for words for a moment, but then said: “But this is necessary. This is for our sake. Yerleg and his warrior-monks are going to do gods know what to us all if we don’t stop them. This is the right thing to do!”

“For fuck’s sake, this is not a question of that,” Jackson grumbled. “It doesn’t matter if you’re right, killing is killing.”

The boy was about to argue again, but Jackson lost patience and sharply said: “Look, this is not a debate. You’re not coming with us, okay?”

Koval shut his mouth, his face turning red. Seeing the hurt in his eyes felt like needles in Jackson’s throat. He tried to apologize, but before he could say a word, the boy turned on his heels and stormed off.

“Ah, goddamnit,” Jackson mumbled.

“You did the right thing,” Byron said.

“I know. I can tell by how shitty it feels.”

With a sigh, he decided there wasn’t much time to go after Koval and make things up with him. The Nehan warriors were supposed to depart the next morning before dawn, and there was still much to do before then. He pushed his squire out of his mind and got to work.

He left the next day before dawn, soon joined by the unit placed under his command. It was made out of several of Sathariel’s spies, Elven scouts, and mounted infantry. Surprisingly, Tezrian had asked to join as well. When asked about her reasons, she predictably said her fires spoke to her, and said she would be needed. Jackson agreed to let her come, not seeing any reason not to: the priestess was an adult and knew how to fight, after all, and more warriors was never a bad thing, especially against a powerful and dangerous enemy.

Surprisingly, Alizana had initially argued against letting Jackson lead the third corps. She had asked that he join her in the first instead. But Jackson had insisted.

“Using the caves was my idea to begin with,” he had said. “Only right I take the lead on that one.”

A cold rain slowed them down the morning of the journey’s first day, so they had to hasten the pace in the afternoon; it was imperative that they arrive on time, ahead of the rest of the army. The Southern Alliance forces had been once again divided into four corps, just like at Atvello. Two of those corps, the first and the second, representing over three fourths of the total manpower, were tasked with attacking the fort head on through the two available paths. The two others, much smaller in number, were tasked with infiltrating the camp by the caves. 

Those four corps were composed differently than at Atvello, however. In the first place, there was no cavalry at all, as it was decided that it would be useless in a siege. Horses would only be used for transport. That was the second difference: carriages had been brought, containing loads of equipment, weapons, shields, foodstuffs, and some tools. A few civilians were coming as well, mainly carpenters and workers whose skills would be needed. All four corps remained in contact with one another through the use of ravens, sending one once a day.

The second day was rainy as well, and this time the waters did not let up until late in the afternoon, slowing Jackson’s corps further. He informed the other infiltration corps of this by raven, telling them to keep going at the same pace. On the eve of the third day, an Eleven scout sent ahead had spotted stormy clouds coming their way; thankfully, she had also found a different route that avoided much of the incoming storm and didn’t prolong the journey too much. The fourth day was dry, but the pathless land was still damp and muddy, and once again they couldn’t travel as much as planned. Even though the fifth day was sunny, if windy and cold, Jackson was on edge. He and his people were once again racing against an invisible clock, and he felt like every delay reduced their chances of success.

The third corps entered the march of Domilo in the early afternoon of the fifth day. The temperatures had continued to go down, and were now near freezing, made all the worse by the winds. Their advance became more cautious, as the land was now very hilly and dotted with rocks and depressions. The rest of the afternoon was spent finding the entrance to the cave. There was a profusion of such caves, but thankfully, the scouts had thought to mark the entrance of the right one by making a cross with rocks in front of it. Once they found it, Jackson sent one last raven to the other infiltration group. The answer came twenty or thirty minutes later. After that, it was a matter of waiting for the sun’s last light.

As he anxiously waited, Jackson’s thoughts naturally went to Alizana. She was leading the first corps, whose objective was to assail the fortified camp from the southeastern path. At the moment, they must have been busy establishing their own camp, building their defenses, and creating the rams. They were supposed to launch their first attack two hours after dusk, which was decided to be sufficient time for the third and fourth corps to find their way through the tunnels. She’s gonna be okay, Jackson told himself. She knows how to take care of herself.

He then had a brief thought about the second corps, which only served to make him more anxious. And with good reason: the second corps was led by Neasa. This had been a necessary compromise for the sake of unity among Hellhounds: barring her from any leading role in the battle would have angered her allies. Jackson was not happy about it -not at all-, but he had agreed with Byron that this was the one situation where her skills as a warrior and her love for violence would come in useful. She could slaughter every warrior-monk for all Jackson cared. With some luck, this might scratch her kill-crazy itch for a while.

The sixty men and women of the third corps unpacked their horses, who were then left in a makeshift pen to wait until their riders’ return. A quick meal was fixed to fill everyone’s stomach. Jackson put on his suit of armor, with no small help from two of his people. He had grown to get used to wearing that metal sarcophagus, though it still felt like a chore. And a physical exercise as well: merely wearing the armor for some time made his body feel like he had gone through an hour of PT -complete with the drill sergeant’s punishment at the end. As he grabbed his helmet under his arm -he wouldn’t wear it until just before he entered the battle-, he realized this would be the armor’s first field test. He had only worn it during training before, never in combat.

Jackson placed his sword in its scabbard on the left side of his belt, then made sure his pistol was still on the right side. He had had a leatherworker create a holster specially for it; it wasn’t as convenient as the ones from his world, due to it being a crude imitation made by someone with no experience with those things, but it was much better than the pouches.

A scout posted atop a hill whistled sharply, signaling that the sun had sunk under the horizon. It was time. Every one made sure that their armor was fitted, and their weapons at the ready, then entered the cave. The first part of the cave was large enough that they could advance without any trouble, but after about half an hour the bowels became tighter and began turning and twisting, forcing the corps to move in line. The scouts leading were using compasses to determine the direction they had to take at each intersection. As for measuring the distance left, they relied on estimating the time spent on the move compared to their relative speed.

Jackson had been surprised to find out that the scouts, who were nearly all illiterate, were in fact quite good at mental calculations; it was in fact an important part of their work, as it was critical to making and using maps.

It very soon became dark in the bowels. Lanterns were used, with a special sort of oil that burnt without creating any smoke. At first, Jackson had looked at his surroundings with curiosity, as it was his first time spelunking; however, he had soon grown bored of it all: it was just rocky walls, followed by rocky walls, and then by more rocky walls. In addition, he had little space to move or stretch, as everyone was often packed together. Some galleries were so narrow he regularly bumped against the walls, and probably would have hurt himself were it not for his suit of armor.

He soon lost all notion of time. Had it been an hour since they had entered the cave? Two? Four? Had it only been a few minutes? It couldn’t have been very long on account of the fact that he was barely tired. He had also lost all sense of orientation. North, south, west, or east, it was completely impossible for him to tell.

“Are we getting close?” he asked a scout as they arrived in a large, oval room -or whatever the term was, Jackson knew almost nothing of spelunking.

“We’re not sure,” she said.

“What?”

“The tunnels look nothing like our maps from here.”

“It’s half a league northeast, I think,” another scout said.

“I’d say northwest,” a third scout said.

“No, it’s right this way,” a voice said behind her.

Both Jackson and the scout turned. It was Tezrian. She was staring at a passage to the right, with such intensity that Jackson wondered if she could see through the darkness.

“That goes south,” the second scout said. “It would lead us away from the camp.”

“No, it’s there,” she insisted.

“How can you tell?” Jackson had to ask.

“I feel their fires.”

“You- Right, of course you do.”

The scouts looked at Jackson, silently asking if that information could be trusted. He nodded. The group continued their way, this time following Tezrian rather than the scouts. After some time, Tezrian suddenly stopped, then silently pointed up.

“Guess we’re here,” Jackson said. “We will have to dig.”

The Hellhounds were given pikes and began striking the ceiling, at the spot Tezrian had designated. Two of them worked at a time, with two more relaying them after about an hour. Eventually, some droplets began falling from the hole they were digging. A Hellhound held out her hand.

“Rainwater,” she said after smelling it.

“There’s already a hole up here? We should still be a few feet away from the surface” another scout said.

The Hellhounds digged a bit more, and this time, something denser and more consistent than rainwater fell.

“Ah, shit!” one of the scouts said, as something splashed his boots.

“Literally,” Jackson said as another scout lit up the man with his lantern.

Indeed, a pile of feces had dropped from the hole, though with the water that had rained on it, it was more liquid than solid. The scout cleaned his boots against a rock, his companions laughing at him all the while. One of the two Sharpfangs present ordered them to keep quiet. Jackson examined the ceiling.

“So this is their latrine, huh?” he said.

“They probably didn’t know there was a cave beneath when they dug,” Byron said. “This will do just fine. We’ll simply have to make the hole a little larger for someone to get through.”

“So we’ll be climbing through shit. Lovely.”

This took a bit longer, as the Hellhounds were instructed to use their claws to reduce the noise. One of the smaller scouts volunteered to climb through the hole once it was wide enough. He was given a length of rope, then given a boost by one of the Hellhounds, who held him up so easily he might as well have weighed nothing. He climbed up quickly, then observed his environment. Apparently, there was a thin wooden wall around the latrine, likely to give its user some privacy, but no roof. The small scout then pulled out a spade and started digging as fast and as silently as he could to widen the hole some more. Suddenly, he raised his head.

“The attack has begun,” he whispered down.

“Dammit,” Jackson said. “All right, let’s hurry up.”

The third corps lined up under the hole, sending the scouts first. The Hellhounds had to wait until the hole was large enough to allow them through; the first to try got stuck, and had to be dug out. Jackson was the tenth or the eleventh to go. With the added weight of his armor, two Hellhounds had to help him up. He pulled out his sword and his gun, and ordered the others to get their weapons out as well. Above him, the sky was filled with clouds; the rain wouldn’t stop any time soon. Jackson, who really didn’t want to fight in cold, rainy weather, made a grimace beneath his helmet.

Sounds of battle reached his ears. His nostrils picked up the smell of smoke and burning wood. The camp, about the size of two football fields and a half, was indeed under attack by the first and second corps, mobilizing the warrior-monks, and giving the third corps the expected opportunity to sneak in. Once everyone went through the hole, they doused their lanterns, split into two squads, and began moving between the tents. The first squad’s objective was finding the people who had been kidnapped, and to cause chaos and confusion by setting tents on fire. For this, they had been equipped with a new weapon, devised during the last winter by Jackson and Byron. It consisted of glass bottles -mostly wine bottles-, filled with pure alcohol mixed with several chemical additives, and topped up with pieces of cloth. Jackson and Byron had devised the medieval equivalent of the Molotov cocktail; the Demons in the Alliance called it damalorr, from the Hellian words dameh, meaning ‘fire’, and alorr, which literally meant ‘terracotta’ but was used to designate all sorts of containers. The name had caught on.

The second squad, led by Jackson, was to find either Yerleg or whoever was in command and kill him, as well as any officers they found, which would hopefully hinder the warrior-monks’ organization. It couldn’t have been  confirmed beforehand that the Archpriest himself was present in the camp, or even in the Marches, and opinions on the subject were divided; some, like Byron, thought it was unlikely -the lesson from Baluq had been learned-, other believed stories they had heard about Yerleg being the sort to lead from the frontline.

In the poor lighting of this clouded night, Jackson soon noticed a big orange glow, coming from the other side of the camp, at the bottom of the small rocky cliff on top of which the watchtower was erected. By the way it danced, Jackson guessed it was a fire, and a rather big one too. Tezrian confirmed it.

“Beware, Mad Jack,” she whispered. “This is no normal fire. I can sense its magic from here.”

A magical fire? Something cold went down Jackson’s throat. Had the priests begun whatever ritual they were planning? He turned to his warriors and ordered them to attack, nevermind the stealth. His instructions were suddenly covered by a piercing scream, coming from the same direction as the fire. It was a woman, shrieking in agony and terror. Clutching the handle of his sword, Jackson ran towards her, a terrible thought rising in his mind.

His intuition was right. On the other side of the camp was a large, round pit dug in the ground, about twelve feet across. A fire, perhaps eight feet tall, roared in it, fueled by some kind of pitch, and possibly something less natural. Warrior-monks, over forty in number, surrounded it. At the bottom of the cliff was a large cage, made out of wood and reinforced with iron. Dozens of people, men, women, and children, were detained inside. And in the pit was the woman, still screaming as the flames devoured her alive. The warrior-monks observed the scene, perfectly collected unlike their prisoners, chanting in unison, their hands raised, palms towards the sky. Two of them went to retrieve another prisoner, this time a man, and led him to the fire. He kicked and screamed, but his strength, probably diminished by weeks of poor treatment and malnutrition, could not even make the warrior-monks budge. The monstrous ceremony was led by a man, wearing the same armor as the others but with a different helmet, who was moving his hands as if to draw invisible figures in the air.

Jackson quickly ordered his warriors to encircle the enemy; it was the obvious move, as they were already half boxed-in by the cliff. Then, he launched the attack himself, by charging one of the warrior-monks and kicking him in the backside with all of his strength, sending him down the fiery pit. The others shouted in anger and surprise, and drew their weapons. Several of them called the alarm, but were interrupted by a volley of missiles as the scouts let loose their bows and fired their guns.

The all-too familiar chaos of combat rapidly followed. Regrettably, the warrior-monks soon recovered from the surprise, and were soon fighting back in order. The bows and arrows quickly lost their initial effectiveness as the enemy grabbed their shields and raised them against the arrows; as to the firearms, their users had been instructed to limit their use, as they were given only one clip and no spare. The fight would be up close.

Once again, the warriors-monks proved their might, being able to stand toe-to-toe against the Hellhounds. As to the scouts, they were overwhelmed, and Jackson decided to order them to focus on freeing the prisoners. Thankfully, the other half of the third corps arrived within moments, their numbers helping to give the Rebellion an edge -though not a big one. 

Jackson thought briefly of the fourth corps, wondering where they were and if he could count on their support. One of the reasons the task of infiltrating the caves had been given to two different units was to ensure at least one of them would arrive on time for the siege. It was unlikely that both would make it in time, however, and especially that both would find an exit located inside the camp. Still, with some luck, the fourth corps might emerge somewhere near, and not too late. The Children of Nayros were among them, with Durnin acting as one of their scouts. Ardito had volunteered to be part of this corps as well, probably to get more material for his songs. As to the two other corps, outside the walls, it was best to assume they would not be breaching the doors anytime soon. For the time being at least, the men and women of the third corps were on their own.

As Jackson engaged another warrior-monk, it soon became clear that all the training he had gone under was not sufficient for him to hold his own one-on-one against them. In fact, were it not for the tactical advantage of the terrain as the warrior-monks were forced to fight with their backs to the fire, added to the fact that several of them had been killed or wounded before the fight proper, his odds would have been a lot more negative. As it was, Jackson struggled hard to avoid getting curb-stomped, and had to resort to some dirty tactics -mostly taught by Byron, who appeared to have mastered them all- like kicking a warrior-monk’s leg under him and push him in the fire too, then attacking another from behind while he was engaging a scout.

To make matters worse, the heavy armor worn by his enemies was sufficiently tough to absorb blows or in some parts stop a piercing blade, and in addition had few weaknesses. Jackson managed to find one in the space between the throat and the shoulder, and another behind the knee, but neither was practical in a straight fight. And if that wasn’t enough, the reports concerning their lack of fear and their near-immunity to pain were both true. At some point, a Hellhound managed to slice one of the warrior-monks’ armed hand clean off, exploiting another flaw in their armor, only for the warrior-monk to shrug it off, and unbelievably hit the Hellhound in the face with his stump. 

Jackson watched this happen, incredulous and more than a little grossed-out, unfortunately giving a warrior-monk the opportunity to strike. It turned out Jackson’s own armor had its own chinks, specifically near his armpit. The point of the warrior-monk’s sword pierced through the padding with ease; by luck, it was stopped by one of Jackson’s ribs. Jackson could feel a little blood pouring out of the wound, running down his flank and tainting his clothing. It didn’t help that it was on his right side, meaning his sword arm was weakened. He was forced to use his pistol at close range to get rid of his assailant. At least the warrior-monks were just as mortal as anyone else when shot in the head.

As the enemy dropped to the ground without a sound, Jackson looked for the priest, deciding once again that going for the leader was the best tactic. It appeared the priest had the exact same idea, however, as he suddenly appeared between two of his warrior-monks, charging Jackson with so much speed it was like his heavy armor didn’t slow him down any. Jackson just about managed to jump on his left to avoid him, falling against a warrior-monk and knocking him over as he did. Jackson pointed his gun, but the priest reacted faster, hitting his armed hand with his sword. The gauntlet stopped the blade, but the blow sent a jolt of pain all the way to his elbow, and the pistol flew off.

Using a signature Byron move, Jackson kicked one of the priest’s legs with both feet, trying to make him fall too. The priest managed to keep standing, but his balance was thrown long enough to give Jackson time to get back up. He took out his ax with his now free hand. The priest and he traded blows. The former’s strength was obviously greater than Jackson, who felt the pain of every attack he couldn’t dodge and had to parry instead. Jackson’s armor was lighter and offered him more mobility, but not enough to give him a real advantage. He tried to overcome his enemy’s defenses several times, and failed each time; at one point, his attack was deflected with such dexterity that he inadvertently put himself at risk. His quick reflexes saved him from what might have been a lethal counterattack from the priest.

It soon became obvious that the only way Jackson could survive this duel was with his pistol. Unfortunately, it was out of sight. Jackson resolved to break the fight and look for his weapon. Easier said than done: the fighters around him were tightly packed, their battle violent. Thankfully, the large fire provided good lighting, and most of the warrior-monks were too focused on their own enemies to pay attention to Jackson as he made his way through them. He searched frantically for his weapon, hearing the priest running after him. Come on, come on… It couldn’t have gotten far. 

One of the Hellhounds he passed by received a terrible blow to the face, and blood splashed on his helmet; some of it went through the eyeslit and into his left eye. Unable to wipe it off, Jackson tried to blink it off instead -with little result-, and resumed his search. Then, one of the warrior-monks dropped on him. Jackson raised his ax, but realized the warrior was dead, his throat cut open by another Hellhound’s claws. Staggering under the body’s weight, he looked above his shoulder, and saw the priest catching up to him. Jackson threw the body at him, which once again only offered him a brief moment of respite. Come on, come on!…

Suddenly, arrows dropped on the warrior-monks, falling nearly vertically as if they had dropped from the sky. Glancing up, Jackson saw two dozen men and women standing atop the cliff. The fourth corps! Recognizing Durnin and Argyro among them lifted up Jackson’s spirits. With renewed energy, he took advantage of the surprise the corps’ appearance had caused among the warrior-monks to seek his pistol.

There! His heart leaped when he saw the weapon in the grass. Unfortunately, one of the scouts was fighting with a warrior-monk right on top of it. Jackson intervened with another signature Byron move, striking with his ax at the back of the warrior-monk’s right knee, making sure to put enough strength to cut into the post-tibial artery. This didn’t cause the enemy any pain, but it weakened his leg, helping the scout push him back.

Jackson quickly shoved his ax in his belt, dropped on one knee, picked up his gun, then turned around and fired at the priest, guessing his position from the clanking noise his armor made. Two shots hit him in the chest, one grazed his neck, and the fourth pierced his helmet roughly at nose-level. The priest kept charging, indifferent to his wounds. Jackson was prepared for that, and waited until the last moment to roll to his side, dodging the attack. He immediately fired a fifth bullet, this time hitting his enemy in the shield arm, then quickly holstered his now empty gun to make sure not to lose it again. The priest reacted fast, hitting Jackson with a well-placed kick to the chest. Jackson almost fell down, a little stunned, but managed to balance himself on one hand. Said hand landed not on the grassy ground, but on something hard; one of the warrior-monks’ shield. Jackson quickly picked it up and raised it as he stood, blocking a piercing attack from the priest’s sword.

The duel between the two men resumed. The priest was just as fierce as before, to the point where Jackson wondered whether he had even noticed that he was wounded. The young man noticed blood dripping beneath the priest’s helmet, coloring his chainmail gorget red, and along his shield hand.

“Guess I’m gonna have to bleed you out, uh?” Jackson grumbled.

But it quickly appeared that this plan would not pan out quickly, as his enemy attacked again and again, pushing Jackson back in his frenzy. These attacks were not the mere result of blind rage: they were precise and targeted, meant to deny any possibility of a counterattack. Most of them were thankfully blocked by the shield Jackson had picked up. He glanced above his shoulder and noticed the cliff wall getting closer and closer with every step back. This was not good: without any plan, Jackson would soon literally find himself with his back to the wall. It didn’t help that, unlike his enemy, he actually felt the pain of every of the blows he had received.

The priest attacked again, using his shield as a ram, with such speed and power that Jackson was sent back two or three feet, and crashed against the wall. Oh, fuck, I’m gonna feel this one tomorrow, he thought as a spasm of pain went through both his shoulder blades. His enemy didn’t let up, immediately unleashing another flurry of sword strikes that came crashing on Jackson’s shield, behind which he hid as best he could. Jackson thought about using his gun again, but getting out his spare clip and reloading in such circumstances would have been suicidal. First, he would need a diversion.

He thought that diversion would come when he heard the sound of the southern gate being broken open, followed by the furious screams of hundreds of Hellhounds charging through, but the priest paid it no mind and kept on attacking the young man. A particularly brutal slash deprived Jackson of his sword; were it not for his gauntlet, it would have also deprived him of a couple of fingers.

Spurned on by a mixture of anger and fear, Jackson grabbed his ax, then thrusted his shield against his enemy. The priest blocked the attack with his own shield, but the impact made his counterattack miss its target. Jackson quickly took advantage of that to strike the wrist of his armed hand with his ax. He managed to hit the weak spot of the priest’s gauntlet, but by what little blood dripped from the wound, he could tell he had missed the artery.

The priest attacked again. The moves of his sword were a bit less focused now, a little weaker. It was still not enough for Jackson to gain the upper hand, though. Adrenaline surged the young man’s veins as he sensed his muscles weakening too, especially in his shield arm, which he could barely even move.

A diversion came, finally, when one of the scouts attacked the priest from behind, using a mace he had evidently recovered from a warrior-monk. He struck the side of the head with a furious, pained grunt, with enough force that the priest’s helmet fell off. Jackson was surprised to see that the priest was in fact Human, with a shaved head, a large chin, and several scars across the face. Barely even stunned by the strike, the priest turned on his heels, his sword hitting the scout’s mace and disarming him in one strong move. Meanwhile, Jackson pulled out his spare clip and reloaded his pistol, hindered by the weakness and the shaking in his hands. Before the scout had time to react, the priest grabbed him by the collar of his leather armor and threw him in the fire. Jackson let out a strangled shout.

As the flames devoured the screaming scout, the priest began chanting again, his cadence much quicker. Something rose from the still living body, something dark and fluid Jackson could barely distinguish through the fire. It somewhat resembled the magic used by the necromant back in Vrittion; Jackson could only imagine it would be just as dangerous. The priest raised his hand, and the substance rose as well, as if responding to a command. Quick, quick, quick! Jackson pulled the pistol’s slide, then pointed it at the priest.

He pulled the trigger right as the priest pointed his hand at him. Two bullets punched through the priest’s skull a second before the dark substance hit Jackson in the chest. The young man dropped to the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

***

A burst of hope lightened Alizana’s heart when the northern gate finally opened, ripped off his hinges by her warriors’ ram. She shouted the order to charge, and the entire first corps poured into the camp, with such energy that a few warrior-monks were thrown down and trampled. The enemies posted on top of the walls continued to rain arrows on the Hellhounds, trying to find a hole in their wall of shields. A volley of damalorrs put an end to that; as tough as their armors were, they were no match for this new weapon, and the fiery death they brought.

“With me!” she yelled at her Longclaws. “We must join with the second corps!”

This task would not be easy. An entire camp separated the first and the second corps, and the warrior-monks opposed fierce resistance wherever they could, even though they no longer had any fortifications to multiply their strength. As to the fact that they were now encircled, with little hope of escape, it hadn’t done a thing to hamper their morale. On the contrary: their impending doom, far from disincentivizing them, had seemingly driven them into a frenzy, largely encouraged by the priests among their ranks. Where moments earlier, they were fighting out of a love for battle and violence, they now fought with abandon. The only upside was that they were now disorganized, their ranks split and fighting with little cohesion as they were forced to fight on a third, internal front; the third and fourth corps had done their job.

Alizana clenched her fangs. Victory was now all but assured, but the real question was how much it would cost the Rebellion. While one of her Longclaws suggested continuing the charge, Alizana chose instead to order her Hellhounds to progress cautiously and in order, raising their wall of shields as they walked on their enemy. Any recklessness would only serve the warrior-monks. It was difficult restraining the Hellhounds’ wrath and their thirst for violence, but the Longclaws and the Sharpfangs performed their job well in that regard. Still, a few warriors broke rank and charged on their own, sometimes to their doom. On occasion, a few more damalorrs were tossed above the shield wall, to break up groups of warrior-monks or discourage any attempt at formation.

The tactic worked, reducing the warrior-monks’ capacity to defend themselves and mount counterattacks, however this came at the cost of slowing down the first corps. Alizana thought of Jackson, who she knew was somewhere in the fortified camp. But where? Was he still in any condition to fight? She shouldn’t have let him take command of the third corps. She should have insisted he fight alongside her, where she could protect him. The third corps could have commanded itself, damnit! At least Sathariel had the good sense to stay in camp. You had better be alive when I reach you, my mate, she thought, gnawing on her lip.

Unfortunately, Jackson and the rest of the third corps was not her priority -much as she wished otherwise. Several Hellhounds had spotted the Archpriest Yerleg, somewhere among the warrior-monks’ ranks. The warrior-monks might not fear their own doom, but surely the death of their leader would greatly disturb their morale. It may well end the battle, in fact; blessed ancestors, it might even end their damned order.

The first corps continued to advance carefully, stretching its ranks to block the northern side of the camp. The warrior-monks kept on fighting like lions, throwing themselves on their enemies’ shields, trying to create a breakthrough. The corps took some casualties, but held strong, containing enemy’s attacks and counterattacking every time the opportunity offered itself. Step by step, they enclosed the warrior-monks. Like cattle being led to the slaughterhouse, Alizana thought with a smile.

Soon, they had arrived close enough to the second corps to hear the shouts of its warriors. This had happened much faster than Alizana thought. Neasa, it seemed, had employed a very different and much simpler tactic, opting for the charge Alizana had declined. Her warriors went fully on the offensive, striking quick and hard, with little regard for formation. Alizana’s blood boiled. Of course her sister’s lust for violence would lead her to employ such an irresponsible and short-sighted tactic.

The battle raged on in this manner for maybe three hours, the first corps acting as an anvil and the second as the hammer. Then, suddenly, there was a palpable shudder within the warrior-monks, as if a gust of ice cold wind had seized them to their very core. Someone, evidently one of the priests, shouted in horror, quickly echoed by others. They were followed by more shouts, this time victorious, rising from the second corps.

“He’s dead!” a Hellhound near Alizana said. “The second corps has killed him!”

“Who?” another asked.

The answer to that question quickly became obvious. As the last shred of order among the enemy disappeared, the warrior-monks seemed to lose their minds completely. Some took their own lives on the spot, while many others launched themselves on their enemies’ weapons, seeking a warrior’s death. Alizana even noticed several tossing themselves into a large fiery pit near the cliff. As the warrior-monks’ ranks cleared, Alizana saw the first lines of the second corps appear. Clearly distinguishable among them was Neasa, brandishing something with raised arms, her expression the very image of triumph. In her hands was the head of Yerleg, mouth opened and eyes half-closed, his neck severed messily as if it had been ripped off rather than cut off. Neasa held it high for everyone, Hellhounds and warrior-monks alike, to see. And how many of our sisters did she sacrifice to get that trophy? Alizana asked herself.

The rest of the battle was a blur to her. The remaining warrior-monks all chose death, often self-inflicted. Not one surrendered; very few were captured alive. The last man fighting died moments before dawn. Soon, the sun rose, albeit hidden behind the hills, lighting up the sky and the hills. The fortified camp was littered with corpses, with many of its tents destroyed. The fire still raged in the pit, though its flames were growing weaker. Near it, Alizana saw the third and fourth corps, and ran towards them. Her veins turned to ice when she saw how many losses they had endured. Her breath hastened as she looked at the bodies, terrified at the very idea of finding her mate among them.

Then, she saw a man standing near a series of empty cages, wearing plate armor sullied with dirt and blood, his helmet under the arm, his blonde hair stained with sweat; down in the grass before him was a priest, his helmet pierced with two holes, a pool of blood forming around it. She let out an exclamation of relief and ran to him.

“Jack!”

But… no. The young man turned to her, and, as their eyes met, Alizana immediately knew something was off. Something in his gaze.

“Byron?” she muttered, disconcerted.

He nodded.

“Can- Can you bring Jackson back?” 

Alizana had never been comfortable seeing that man wearing the traits of her mate. It was just… wrong. Uncanny. Like a disguise that fitted all too well, yet not quite right at the same time.

“I’m afraid not,” Byron said, his voice, as always, disturbingly similar to Jackson’s but with a very subtle deviation in the tone.

“What?”

“That priest did some sort of magic to Jackson, and he lost consciousness. I can’t switch with him.”

“What? No, no, no…” Alizana said, her ears and tail raising as her adrenaline spiked. She grabbed the man by the shoulders. “Jack. Jack! Talk to me!”

“He’s not answering, I tried,” Byron said. “I can’t even hear him.”

“Ancestors… Is he…?”

The veteran hesitated, and Alizana felt her heart shrink.

“No… I don’t think so. It feels more like… he’s asleep, but cannot wake up.”

She took a step back, words failing her. What did that priest do? What manner of spell had he put on Jackson? Alizana didn’t know much about the Arcanes; as she often said, she knew just about enough to distrust them.

“It is a curse,” a voice said.

Alizana looked over her shoulder. Tezrian was standing a few feet away, her bloodied ax in hand. She moved closer, her left leg noticeably limping.

“You know what’s wrong with him?” Alizana asked.

“The priest sacrificed one of the scouts and used him to fuel his magic. I believe he placed a curse on Mad Jack’s soul. I attempted to stop him, but it happened too fast.”

“Can you break it?”

Tezrian observed Byron in silence for a moment. “No… I know little of this sort of magic.”

“He used the Second Forbidden Arcane, didn’t he?” Byron said.

“Yes, I believe so.”

Clamors were rising from the Hellhounds’ ranks, and Alizana suddenly remembered the battlefield around her. The wounded were being tended to, the dead counted, and the liberated prisoners gathered. About two dozen warriors were busy stripping the corpses of the warrior-monks of their arms and armors, before tossing them in the fire pit. Most of the Hellhound warriors were massed near the southern gate, cheering on Neasa as she exhibited the head of the fallen Archdemon.

As she looked at her triumphant sister then at Byron, Alizana began to realize just how costly that victory had been.

421 Views