The Pulver Chronicles – 39. Lookin’ Down On Creation

“Yes, it could work, my liege,” Gawain said. “It could really work.”

He leaned back from the table and crossed his arms over his tabard, half-obscuring the silver stallion on a white field sewn over the chest. His eyes detailed the map again, and the many pieces on it. The pieces were made out of wood, finely carved and lacquered, with many details clearly identifying them as infantry, cavalry, archers, and so on. A small hole on top of them allowed the insertion of miniature flags, to identify each army’s fealty. Works of art on their own, Gawain thought. The map, however, was more on the simple and efficient side, detailing the terrain with accuracy but without much neatness. It showed the northeastern part of the South, to the march of Felitz on the left to the eastern coast on the right. Gawain could see the march where they were currently located -Netigo, he believed the name was- near the top right corner. They were less than a hundred miles away from the nearest castle occupied by the Hexacracy.

In front of him, presenting his left side, the Emperor Damian III continued to study the map, rubbing his freshly shaved chin. He was no doubt trying to find any weaknesses in his own strategy, any aspects that could be ameliorated, any flaws he overlooked. Perhaps it was because he was used to power and to the control that came with it, but the Emperor strongly disliked leaving anything up to chance. The way he led his campaigns reflected this attitude: he often spent entire days and nights studying maps, reading intelligence reports, and discussing with officers. His strategic councils were often just as time-consuming, and the generals and nobles attending them usually left looking exhausted.

“It is a gamble,” the Emperor said, finally turning away from the map to pour himself a cup of eyelet milk. He was an avid consumer of the beverage, drinking about a pint every day. If coffee existed in this world, Gawain often thought, he’d definitely be a caffeine addict.

“It is, sire,” Gawain said. “But then, most military actions are. You taught me this, my liege. When on the battlefield, soldiers sometimes falter, and officers sometimes make errors of judgment.”

“Yes, but this is more than that. I trust my soldiers and my officers. This time, I’d be relying on other factors as well. External factors.”

The Emperor drank most of his eyelet milk in one gulp. Gawain helped himself to some of it as well; he didn’t really like it -too sweet for his taste, even watered down-, but the hour was getting late and he needed the pick-me-up.

“You can trust the Southern Alliance as well, my liege,” he said. “At least, as far as this plan goes. Elyonn is their enemy too.”

“Hmmm…”

Damian III mulled this for a moment, contemplating the bottom of his cup before finishing it. A brisk wind rose outside, making the beige walls of the tent flap and lowering the temperature by a few degrees. In spite of the two layers he was wearing, Gawain couldn’t contain a shudder. The large tent meant for strategic reunions was effective at blocking the rain, but not strong winds. It didn’t help that the temperature had lowered these days, and were now near freezing.

“Is that what you think, Gawain?” Damian III asked. “Can I trust the Southern Alliance? Can I trust sir Jackson?”

Gawain licked his upper lip. The Emperor rarely asked for his opinion when it came to military strategy, and Gawain rarely wished to offer it anyway; in spite of his training, he did not believe he was cognizant enough in such matters to provide good counsel. But of course, in this particular case, it was different.

“Those are two different questions, my liege,” he said carefully. “You can trust Jackson Pulver. I know him to be honest and trustworthy. He is a man of his word. I trust he will be a reliable ally.”

He paused.

“As to the Southern Alliance, truthfully, I cannot say, sire. I think we can trust them when it comes to waging war against the Hexacracy in the short term. But as for the rest… Well, you’ve read the reports, my liege. You know them better than I do. They confirm what Jackson said: it’s unlikely they will accept your offer of vassalage; they are too proud for that. Unlikely doesn’t mean impossible, however. They may change their minds yet.”

“I agree,” Damian III said, “but you are only giving a general answer. What of this particular situation? Should I trust them with this plan?”

Gawain took a quick look at the map.

“Yes, my liege, I believe you should. In the first place, this opportunity may not present itself again anytime soon. I don’t believe you need the reminder, but as Emperor, it is your duty to do all that you must to win this war. In the second place, the Alliance and its Hellhounds are more than competent warriors, and they too want to end the Hexacracy’s invasion.”

“And what if Neasa leads their armies? Would you trust the Alliance then?”

“From what we know of that woman, I wouldn’t trust her at all, sire,” Gawain said, his lips twisting with contained anger. “But if that were to happen, if she were to lead the Alliance’s soldiers -which I hope not-, I would make sure they stay clear from our own soldiers, and from yourself, my liege.”

“You think she would make an attempt on my life,” the Emperor said. It was a statement more than a question.

“I think, given the opportunity, she’d kill any sentient being in the South that’s not a Hellhound, my liege. Men, women, and children. Polran Keep is proof of that.”

For a moment, his mind went back to the report the Emperor had read out to him about what was found at Polran Keep. The author of that report had not neglected any detail: the numbers of victims, who they were, the way in which they had died… Gawain shook his head. That woman represented all that he hated: the criminality that arose from lawlessness, the barbary that was born from lack of order. The sort of person who thrived wherever civilisation was ailing -and oftentimes amplified that ailing. If he were to find himself in a position where he had to kill either Neasa or one of the Archdemons, he wasn’t sure which one he would choose.

It was hard for him to think that Jackson Pulver was fighting on the same side as that… creature. He wanted to believe it wasn’t out of choice. War made for strange bedfellows, after all. And there were some bad apples on the Empire’s side too.

“A risky move, then, as I said,” the Emperor said. From his tone, Gawain knew he was speaking more to himself than to him.

“As my people would say: high risk, high reward, my liege,” Gawain said.

“Would you do it?”

The knight was caught off-guard by the direct question.

“Ah… My liege, I’m not a, uh…” He cleared his throat, and considered his answer. “Yes. Yes, I believe I would, sire. As I said, it is a matter of duty.”

Damian III nodded, and placed his now empty cup on the table. There was another gust of wind, this one thankfully shorter. The tent remained quiet for a while. Gawain used to mind these silences which often occurred during conversations with his liege, but he eventually got used to them. That was just the way the Emperor was: sometimes eloquent -especially in official circumstances-, sometimes laconic -often, actually-, sometimes taciturn. Gawain suspected he at times used that silence to stress his interlocutors and make them talk.

“Yes,” the Emperor said, abruptly cutting the silence. “It can be done. It must be.”

“Shall I contact sir Jackson, my liege?”

Damian III nodded sharply. “But not now. It is the hour of the wolf, and we have both earned some rest, I think.”

The young knight silently agreed. Both men went to the imperial tent. Military tradition demanded that, whenever campaigning, the Emperor -or on occasion the Imperial Regent- slept with three knights of the Silver Steed under the same tent every night, for his security. The two other knights were still awake. 

One of them, Wiltan Poole, was sitting on his bed, reading a book in the lights of two candles, with his spectacles firmly planted on his nose. When people saw that tall and burly man, with a large jaw and a shaved head, beady eyes, and a permanent rictus on his mouth due to a scar, they often assumed the man to be a brute and tended to avoid him, some even giving him a large berth when he walked by. It didn’t help that he came from Wintry Bay, the northernmost town in the Empire, often believed to be populated with gruff, violent quasi-barbarians. Few realized Sir Wiltan was in fact very much a bookworm, spending most of his free time with a book in hand, and possibly the gentlest and most mild-mannered knight of the Order of the Silver Steed -the most erudite without a doubt. This affinity for books as well as his excellent calligraphy had made Sir Wiltan the most natural candidate to keep the memoirs of the Order, a role usually left to the knight commander. His personal sigil, placed beneath the Order’s silver horse, was a blue owl.

The other knight, Luken Rainworth, was absent from the tent. Gawain heard his cough through the tent’s wall. Sir Luken was evidently smoking the pipe again, something Damian III had demanded he always did outside the tent: unlike the knight commander, the Emperor did not enjoy the smell of pipe smoke, not at all. He was especially not fond of the unique blends Sir Luken liked to experiment with.

Luken entered the tent a few minutes after the Emperor and Gawain, his pipe put out and tucked away in his leather longcoat’s front pocket. Ever since he had started training under him, Gawain had thought that Sir Luken Rainworth looked very much like the knights in the popular stories. He was almost six feet tall, had broad shoulders, bright brown eyes, full lips, and a head full of neck-length blond hair. The very image of a knight in shining armor, though his personality was somewhat different. The knights in the stories were all brave, humble, and unceasingly loyal to their liege. Sir Luken had the first and the last qualities down, certainly, but humility was a different matter. The man was not especially boastful, but it was clear he thought highly of himself, projecting a lot of confidence wherever he went and in whatever he did. In addition, he had a rather sharp tongue, and was prone to clever comments when among his peers -and, more rarely, in front of his superiors. 

That particular aspect of his personality even manifested itself during fights. Indeed, Sir Luken was famous for the barbs he threw in duels and battles. It wasn’t merely for fun, although it was clear he enjoyed triggering angry reactions in his opponents, but an actual part of his battle tactics: an enraged enemy was often an unfocused enemy. This pragmatic approach to combat was decidedly not something one would read in the stories, in which knights always fought with honor, and respect for their enemies’ dignity.

For his personal sigil, Sir Luken had adopted a pink weasel over a yellow field. He told people pink was one of the colors of his father, the late Sir Pietr Rainworth, and yellow represented his homeland of Hastad. Gawain thought that the real reason behind this choice was that the combination of those two colors made Sir Luken more noticeable, especially on the battlefield.

Everyone went to bed without a comment. Happily, the imperial tent had thicker walls than the other one, and the night’s cold winds were kept at bay. Gawain was especially thankful of that when he woke up the next day and, as he left the tent to relieve himself, noticed a light cover of snow on the grass.

“Snow in the South?” Sir Luken said. “That’s a rare sight. I’ll bet you Madalin will see this as an omen.”

She sees everything as an omen, Gawain thought. It’s part of her job, I suppose. Madalin –Devout Madalin, as was her title- was a priestess, one of the three representatives of the Church of the Divine attached to the Emperor’s army. She was the one who interacted with Damian III most often, though Gawain wasn’t quite sure why. Did the Emperor appreciate her personality more, or her colleagues’ less? Did he prefer to interact with only one of the priests, and had chosen her at random?

In fact, Gawain wasn’t sure why the Emperor spoke with a priest at all. From what he knew of Damian III, the man wasn’t particularly devout. He paid his tributes to the Church of the Divine, said his prayers, and followed the Twenty Tenets, but mostly out of duty and respect for the traditions attached to his role. Beyond that, religion played little role in his life or in his work. He was not the sort of man who would seek religious counsel, in other words, but perhaps Gawain didn’t know everything about him.

Sir Luken was proven right during the morning prayer, led by Madalin, who mentioned the morning snow and named it a warning from the Divine. His head still bowed, Gawain could see his brother-at-arms roll his eyes from the corner of his. The prayer finished, Madalin held up a black and white effigy by its string, and all three knights then their Emperor knelt before it, then briefly clasped it between both of their palms. Gawain was a little clumsy when he took the effigy in turn, and accidentally pulled on the string, pulling the priestess’ hand down a few inches. No one seemed to notice, luckily.

After the morning prayer came the morning meal, then the morning training. Gawain had soon learned that the daily life of a knight of the Order of the Silver Steed, at least in times of war, had much in common with his old military life: regular training, many duties to fulfill, and strong discipline. The main difference was he now had a lot of downtime during the day, although he was expected to be ready for battle at a moment’s notice; “hurry up and wait”, as sergeant Duval would have said. He occupied most of this downtime by hanging out with his fellow knights, especially Sir Luken. His former mentor was one of his closest friends, and the only of his brothers-at-arms who had greeted him warmly in the Order.

Gawain couldn’t help but sigh as he remembered his first days wearing the Silver Steed’s coat of arms. His introduction to what was supposed to be a fraternal order had not been very… brotherly. At first, the other knights had treated him coldly and with mistrust. He understood why, of course: he was an outsider, a dark horse among the Silver Steed. From their perspective, he had come out of nowhere, and rapidly gained not only his knighthood but entry in one of the oldest and most revered orders of chivalry in the Empire. His young age -he was the youngest by eight years- had not helped, anymore than his status as an imperial bastard. Regarding the latter, he had to endure quite a few snide comments implying that he owed his rank to his birth and not to any merit -which, sadly, was not completely wrong.

Things had gotten better, thankfully, with time and hard work. Most of his brothers-at-arms had grown to accept him as one of theirs. Some remained distant, like Sirs Olvo Gruez and Garren Morrat, who still saw him as some unskilled upstart, his nomination to the Order the sole result of nepotism.

In a way, this was good: as the Emperor had planned, this meant nobody, whether in the Order or in the court, suspected any other reason behind Gawain’s sudden appearance in the Emperor’s entourage. Nobody questioned his true origins. Well, nobody except Sir Luken, who had suspected all along, but even he had said nothing, and asked no questions.

As to Sir Gruez, he remained in Velenopolis along with several of his brothers-at-arms, tasked with protecting the imperial family, particularly the Empress, the two Princes, and the very young Princess. With Gruez being now fifty-three years old, the Emperor had preferred not to bring him on the battlefield. Sir Morrat, as for him, had been sent to another army, to serve and protect Sir Alster Roone.

Gawain pursed his lips as he thought of the Princes and the Princess. Though he was technically their uncle, the Princes were only a few years younger than him, and already quite mature. He hadn’t met with them often, even when he lived in the imperial castle, and his relations with them had been distant although cordial. The Emperor had not told any of them about Gawain’s real identity, but Gawain suspected that Lockan -the eldest son- at the very least suspected they weren’t related by blood. He had made a few comments on Gawain’s accent, and on more than one occasion had corrected him on his knowledge of the Steedian dynasty, yet without questioning Gawain’s ignorance of some important details of what was supposed to be his own family. Lorence, the younger son, seemed to have some doubts, sometimes, but overall it was clear he accepted his father’s story; he probably believed that any suspicion would be a form of filial disobedience. As to the Princess, being only four years old, she was of course too young to question the sincerity of adults.

The Emperor took part in the morning training, as he did regularly. No matter how busy he was with the war, or how little rest it gave him, he always found time for physical exercise. Gawain admired that: it was another sign that Damian III was the kind of leader who, unlike too many -some of whom, unfortunately, were part of the Empire-, actually practiced the discipline he expected of his soldiers.

Gawain also welcomed the opportunity for exercise as a good way to warm himself up on this cold morning. He practiced with the sword and with the spear, facing Sir Wiltan who used similar weapons. Sir Wiltan was trained in the traditional combat style of the Narrian nobles, which favored short, straight moves, and put the emphasis on defense and counterattacks. Meanwhile, Sir Luken, who sparred with the Emperor, used a combination of two Hastadish styles, both of which favoured the offensive and made great use of feints; it was more showy -in addition to being more taxing-, which Gawain suspected was one of the reasons why Sir Luken had adopted it.

The session was interrupted early by a page calling for the Emperor’s attention. Gawain saw he was holding a small, rolled note, the kind habitually used with messenger pigeons. The Emperor took it, thanked the page, and began reading. After a few lines, he said:

“Gawain, come. This will concern you.”

“What is it, my liege?” the young knight asked, giving his sparring spear to sir Wiltan.

“It’s a report concerning the Hellhounds.”

“From…?” Gawain left his sentence hanging.

“Yes. They launched their attack on Yerleg and his minions two days ago, in the evening. Apparently, the Archpriest’s base of operations was located in the March of Domilo.”

“They found it before we did? They must have benefitted from the help of locals. Was their battle a success, my liege?”

The Emperor kept on reading, his eyes moving from left to right quickly. Gawain awaited the answer with baited breath. Thankfully, it came quickly.

“It was. The Hellhounds assailed the fort from both sides, while a smaller contingent infiltrated the camp using a network of caves underneath. They fought all night, but quickly gained the upper hand. It… Ha.”

The Emperor’s eyebrows jumped up.

“My liege?”

“The report states that Yerleg has died in battle.”

“What?” Gawain tried to get a better look at the report. It was coded, of course, but Gawain had been taught the cipher -though he had difficulty remembering it well.

“The Archpriest was among the warrior-monks entrapped between the Hellhounds forces, it appears.”

“If this is true, that’s great, my liege!” Gawain said. “There’s only four Archdemons left, and only one of them is still in the field. With our future campaign…”

Again, he didn’t finish his sentence. The Emperor’s teeth had clenched ever so slightly; some bad news accompanied the good, it seemed.

“Apparently, Neasa claims to have killed him in person.”

“Ah…” Gawain muttered. “That’s, um, that could be a problem, my liege.”

“Indeed,” the Emperor said. “This feat could go a long way to increase her influence among her people. And…”

His teeth clenched again, just as briefly, and this time his brow had frowned as well.

“The victory has been costly to the Hellhounds, the report says. The casualties have not been properly counted yet, but they number in the hundreds at least. Sir Jackson has apparently been wounded in battle.”

Gawain took a sharp breath. “What happened?”

“It is unclear; it seems Alizana is keeping mum about it. However, it appears one of the priests has put a curse on him, using a Forbidden Arcane.”

“What sort of curse? Is he alive?”

“He is alive,” the Emperor said. “He appears to be fine, at least so far. They don’t know what sort of curse it is, though they believe it affected his soul. They don’t possess the arcane knowledge necessary to identify the curse more precisely, let alone remove it.”

A terrible numbness possessed Gawain, birthing from his heart and spreading through his body. Though he had yet to witness the effects of the Forbidden Arcanes on their victims -aside from those zombies in Vrittion-, he had been told quite a few stories about that particular subject. Almost none of them ended well. The stories told by the Inquisitors were especially dark, involving souls being used as fuel for dangerous spells, or imprisoned for long periods of time during which the victim was fully conscious, usually suffering a great deal of anguish. Had this been Gawain’s old world, the Geneva Conventions probably would have had entire segments about these… practices.

The letter said he’s fine, Gawain thought. No… Appears to be fine, it said. Damnit, what if it’s a delayed effect? He had been told that some spells, curses in particular, could take time. Some especially cruel magis could torture their targets that way over the course of months, even years. Oh, Jack… You need to be okay, buddy.

“We must do something, my liege,” he said, trying to contain the stutter he often had when anxious.

The Emperor raised an eyebrow.

“My liege, Jackson is the main reason we have brokered a truce with the Hellhounds, and are now fighting as a united front. And this union is key to your future campaign. Should Jackson…” His lips quivered. “Should he be out of the picture, Alizana’s influence would decrease, and Neasa might well gain the upper hand among her people. I don’t need to remind you how detrimental that would be to us, sire.”

There was a silence while Damian III rolled up the letter and slipped it in his leather coat’s pocket.

“Yes, I agree,” he said, and Gawain breathed again. “Our duty -and our interest- is plainly evident in this matter. The question is: how? Forbidden Arcanes are not so easily broken.”

The Emperor rubbed his freshly-shaved chin.

“You could send the imperial healer to him, my liege,” Gawain said.

Garry Hills was indeed a gifted magi, and quite knowledgeable in the ways of medicine -or what passed for medicine is this world. Gawain had seen him treat even severe wounds with great efficiency. In fact, the former knight commander of the Order of the Silver Steed owed the man his life; unfortunately, even all of his skill and his magic had been unable to reattach the fingers he had lost in battle, forcing him to retire. Gawain himself had quickly recovered the use of his leg thanks to him, after he had broken it by falling off his horse during a skirmish.

Yes, Garry Hills excelled at healing the body. But this was an ailment of the soul, the Hellhounds seemed to believe.

“He might know what to do,” the Emperor said with a short nod. “But if this truly is the work of the dark arts, he will require assistance.”

“Maybe our battlemages…”

“They would have been of help to prevent the curse, but would not be able to do anything about it now. No. We need something… more.”

The young knight did not ask what he meant, for his liege’s tone had grown lower, and his expression had turned darker. Whatever it was, this was evidently not something he wished to discuss. And Gawain probably didn’t want to know.

“I must go,” the Emperor announced after a moment of silent thinking. “I will be back by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“Shall I tell the imperial healer to prepare for the journey, my liege?”

Damian III gave his approval with another sharp nod, then turned on his heels and walked away. Gawain watched him go, the numbness in him receding only a little.

 

***

The ride took the Emperor the entirety of the day. He was accompanied by twelve horsemen led by Sir Poole, as well as by Devout Madalin. The territory they would be crossing was far from any Hexacrat army, but there was still the possibility of an ambush. Sir Poole had been chosen not only because of his skill, but also because Damian could trust the man to keep mum about anything he could see and hear. Madalin had been chosen because she was the one who had made the meeting possible. Without her, or any representative of the Divine Church, that meeting may well have been refused to Damian.

It was hard to accept for the Emperor that there were parts of his Empire he couldn’t access, and where his power had little reach. Such was the consequence, he thought, of the weakness of several of his predecessors, starting with his own father Helbert II. The man had let several lords gather more strength and influence, to the point where defiance was not only possible but likely. Lords like duke Evrart Brannon, who had repeatedly proven to be a thorn in Damian’s side. Worse yet, Helbert had let the Inquisition’s power grow unchecked. Now the organization had not only its own clergy and its own treasury, but also its own army. It was nothing that could seriously threaten the imperial armies, but still a cause for concern.

The Inquisition… Damian’s lips tightened. Even before his coronation, he knew many would oppose his rule, both outside and inside the Empire. If he was to make a list of the biggest threats against him, the Inquisition would likely have the second rank right after the Archcommander Elyonn. But unlike Elyonn, the Inquisition posed a more subtle threat. Certainly, the Inquisitors had no interest in killing him -or even dethroning him-, but they could still cause him a lot of trouble if they so wished. Their influence on the Divine Church was undeniable, to the point where it was more akin to control; for instance, it was an open secret that one of the two Great Pontiffs was essentially a pawn to the High Inquisitor in the capital. And controlling the faith went a long way in controlling the people, as Damian was painfully aware.

The Inquisitors had power, yes, a lot of power. Damian worried it was only a matter of time before they acquired enough to counterbalance his own. He had worked to contain the Inquisition as much as he could. And as discreetly as he could: officially, the throne and the faith were on the same side, and it would do no good to reveal a schism between the two. The Risings of the Faithful were still fresh in most memories, although the last one was now over a century old and had ended by the then Emperor’s victory. Still, the Divine Church and the Inquisition had proven then that they could push back against the imperial power, and rally both nobles and commoners to their cause. In fact, the second of those Risings had proven that the Church could gather enough power to dethrone an Emperor when push came to shove. Officially, that Emperor -Wilan II, now better known as Wilan the Humbled, or sometimes still as Wilan the Faithless- had abdicated, but it was an open secret he was given no other choice: he had been branded a heretic for his strange arcane experiments, and his entire Empire had risen against him.

As Damian distinguished the spires of the Sanctotum, he was reminded of the fact the Inquisition and the Divine Church were just one side of the issue. The visible side. Hidden behind them -above them?- was something else entirely, something much bigger and far more mysterious. Something… whose assistance Damian now required, in more ways than one. And that meant he might owe a debt.

Damian had always disliked the idea of being indebted to anyone. It meant, after all, that someone had control over him. His Empire had contracted several debts ever since the beginning of the war -military conflicts had the unfortunate tendency to be costly-, but those were just financial debts, that would be repaid through material means: currency, land, titles… The debt he was about to contract would have to be repaid in a very different way. That, he disliked even more.

The Sanctotum of Roseval was an old building, dating back to the days of Damian II’s conquest. Supposedly, it was the first place of worship the Divine Church had built in the South, although the priests of the Sanctotum of Atvello disputed that. It had been erected at the center of what was then a thriving town -Roseval-, on top of a hill, its gates pointing north towards the imperial capital. But then, the First Southern War had come to these lands, and the town had been besieged, sacked, and finally burnt to the ground. Its Sanctotum had been looted, its idols stolen, and its altars defiled. Little had been left but stones and cadavers.

When Roseval’s march had been retaken, almost a year ago, the Divine Church had made it a point to rebuild the Sanctotum. While the work was still not over, it was once again used as a place of worship by the devouts… and as a base of operations for the Inquisitors. The Inquisition didn’t typically use Sanctotums to house their people, but after the loss of many of their commanderies to Yerleg’s warrior-monks, it had become a necessity.

The rest of the former town was still in the same sorry state as it had been ever since the First Southern War. There was little left but foundations of bricks, a dilapidated tower with moss-covered stones, and one paved street overtaken by grass. This would be the fate for many other towns and cities, should the Empire fail to reconquer the South soon, Damian was sure of it. The campaign had to succeed. It had to.

But Damian still had his doubts. The campaign would be a large undertaking, the largest of the war so far. It would mobilize thousands of men over long distances, with what this meant in terms of logistics. Furthermore, its success would depend on multiple factors: planning, reinforcement, morale, communications… The Hellhound Rebellion would be a factor as well. Without them, the Empire would have to mobilize more men, meaning more people would have to be recruited through the spring, mostly peasants, which in turn would have consequences on the economy. In spite of Damian’s and several of his predecessors’ efforts towards reform, the Empire’s economy still largely depended on agriculture, with all it implied for its stability -how many Emperors had seen their reign made unstable by a particularly bad winter or a poor harvest?

The same would be true in case of a protracted conflict, of course, which made the success of the campaign even more important. In fact, the Second Southern War lasting longer than it already had would be detrimental to the Empire in several ways. There were the issues of logistics and manpower, as mentioned, but there was another problem that concerned Damian: the noble houses.

Nobles held a lot of power in the Empire, naturally. While they theoretically derived that power from their allegiance to the Emperor, many noble houses had built up their own bases of power, mostly owing to the resources of their land. That was understandable, and in some ways inevitable. What was less understandable, and to Damian should have been evitable, was that his father and predecessor had also failed to restrain the growth of power of several noble houses. Had Damian not succeeded him and taken steps to curb that tendency, some of these houses might well have become more powerful than the Emperor. Gawain had called this system “feudalism”, and explained that many monarchies of his world had once lived through periods of time where the nobility were stronger than the monarch they owed fealty to, and that this fealty was sometimes just an afterthought.

Hearing his knight describe these societies reinforced Damian’s conviction that some of his greatest enemies were indeed not foreign, but indeed part of the Empire. His thoughts focused on Duke Evrart Brannon. House Brannon was without a doubt one of the most powerful in the Empire, second only to House Steedian, and its branches extended far, over several duchies and counties, and into other families. 

Evrart was the ambitious sort without a doubt. He had been smart enough to marry members of his family to important actors of the Empire. For instance, some fifteen years ago, when Mallia Uquever, countess of the Seven Fangs, had been widowed, Evrart had within months managed to get one of his younger brothers married to her. It had been so quick some suspected that the count’s death had not actually been caused by a bad case of pigpox. Damian himself didn’t believe that: Evrart was certainly ruthless, but not to the point that he would murder -or order the murder of- other nobles. The man was a vulture, yes, but not a killer. 

Whatever the case, House Uquever of the Seven Fangs might as well be known today as House Brannon of the Seven Fangs, adding the county’s fertile lands to what might one day be known as the Brannon Empire.

Damian had met Evrart Brannon for the first time on the day of his crowning. He had seen him many times before, mostly on his father’s name days, but he had never been actually introduced back then. Even outside these occasions, the duke was regularly found by Helbert II’s side or at his table. Evrart talked a lot, Damian used to think back then, sometimes even interrupting his Emperor.

During this first real meeting, Damian had found Evrart to be entirely polite, though he believed there was a measure of artificiality to his manners; the duke had reminded Damian of the -far too many- people he had seen cajoling and flattering his father in order to gain something from him, using their ruler as a mere pawn. The duke and the Emperor had engaged in a few conversations that day, mostly about nobility. Evrart’s beliefs on the subject were quite different from the Emperor’s. It was evident, from hearing speak about his peers and his subjects, that he believed power to be an end in itself, unlike Damian who had only ever seen it as a means, or even as a tool. At some point, it had apparently become obvious that Damian was not as pliable as his father, and the duke’s affability seemed to partly evaporate. Their meetings hereafter had been rare and infrequent.

Until the Second Southern War had begun. As the commander of one of the largest armies in the imperial realm, Evrart Brannon had naturally been called to join the Emperor in regaining the South. The duke had delayed levying his soldiers and his knights until the last moment; he had likely wanted to make it clear to the Emperor that he wasn’t at his beck and call. Damian had assumed then that it would be a warning sign of how their cooperation would go, and he was right. To call Duke Evrart difficult would be akin to calling fire warm. Cognizant of his own significance to the war effort, the man questioned orders and instructions almost systematically, to the point where Damian suspected that he just enjoyed butting heads.

Sadly, as stubborn and contrarian as the man was, he was clever enough not to cross the line into outright disloyalty. Denied the opportunity to undermine him for it, Damian was put in a difficult position. He essentially had to choose between letting one of his vassals defy him, or punish him without due cause, thus violating his rights and privileges as a nobleman of the Empire. While there were precedents for the latter option, these did not always end well. At least one Emperor had been deposed for infringing upon the privileges of one of his vassals. And while, again, Evrart might not be a murderer, it was not out of the question that he might use his influence to rally parts of the nobility against Damian. The Emperor had reason to believe he was already working towards that end.

For now, all the Emperor could do about the defying Duke was bear with his insolence, and respond to his japes with indifference. Protesting too much could only weaken his position, and indifference at least seemed to annoy Evrart. 

In the meantime, the reconquest of the South was going well, if slowly, meaning the Emperor’s popularity among the nobles and the military was still strong. But that too could change should the conflict last for too long. This was actually something Evrart criticized regularly during strategic meetings: Damian’s strategy, he said, was too defensive, too slow. At this rate, he claimed, the war would go on for another ten years. He often suggested -nearly demanded- that more offensives be launched, that more occupied castles be besieged. Damian refused vehemently, well aware of the fact that this would play into Elyonn’s hands: ever since the beginning of the conflict, the Archcommander’s strategy had always been to provoke the Empire into attacking them upfront, crashing their armies into his fortified positions. The Emperor knew it was smarter to advance carefully, building up their logistics while starving the Hexacracy’s supplies.

It was slow, but it would work. Damian knew from studying many past conflicts that wars were won with brains, not guts, and that tactics are meaningless without strategy -who were themselves worthless without logistics. And if that meant less heroic battles that would be written down in history books, so be it: it also meant less soldiers’ lives wasted in the name of so-called glory. Sadly, Evrart and quite a few nobles just couldn’t see that. One noble -one of Evrart’s relatives, unsurprisingly- had in fact once lost his temper and called the Emperor’s strategy cowardly; this resulted in his removal from all strategic meetings.

As Damian got off his horse with the help of two of his men, he put an end to that train of thoughts. Evrart Brannon was a problem for later; the Sanctotum, and what he would meet inside, was a problem for now. The building’s doors opened, revealing two devouts, wearing the black and white robes of their office. They were two men: one old, wrinkled, and hoary, a long white beard reaching to his chest, and one looking to be just barely of age, with a fuzzy patch beneath his short nose. The two did the religious salute: hands joined at chest level, head bowed. The older devout then said:

“Welcome, your Imperial Majesty. Everything has been prepared for your arrival.”

“Excellent,” Damian said.

“The hour is getting late, however. If you prefer, we can do the ritual tomorrow instead. We have a room prepared for you,”

“I would prefer to do this now.”

The old devout nodded, and gestured for the Emperor to enter the Sanctotum. The work inside the building was not as advanced as the outside. While the walls, the roof, and the spires had been almost completely restored, the furnishment inside was barely a third of what it was. The replacement stone benches had not been sculpted yet, and smaller benches of simple wood were used in the meantime. While the two marble altars were finished, one had evidently not been waxed yet. The marble tiles were in the process of being installed, with only a fourth of the floor being covered at that point. As to the central statue, it was simply missing.

The Emperor was led to the back of the Sanctotum, in an area normally reserved for the clergy. This area was less visibly impressive, a short hallway with simple stone walls and no marble decorations. The devouts and the Emperor walked by five wooden doors on the sides, and arrived at another, larger door made out of snow-white stone. A sharp eye would have noticed the stone used to build that door was quite different from the one used in the rest of the building. An astute mind would have also recognized that type of stone as the sort only found far in the mountains of Narra. The devouts of the Divine Church called it coldrock. By imperial charter, they were the only ones in the Empire allowed to mine it and use it. They claimed it had unique properties, but only those ordered by the Divine could know what they were and how to use them. Dark consequences were promised to those who so much as touched coldstone without being a fully ordained member of the clergy.

That door, which allegedly was found in every Sanctotum, was an example of those properties. If the devouts were to be believed, only one of their own could open it. Though it was not locked or barred in any way, even the strongest man in the land would not be able to budge it unless he wore the black and white robe and had taken the vows. Not that any layman even knew of that door’s existence: it was one of the most closely guarded secrets in the Divine Church. 

The Emperor was vaguely tempted to try and push it open, but let the oldest devout do the honors instead. His young acolyte respectfully kept his distances as the aging man slowly, deliberately placed the palms of his hands on the door, his head lowered. The old devout recited something with a low, trembling voice, then began pushing. The door opened as easily as if it had been made out of feathers, revealing a flight of stairs climbing into darkness. So complete was the lack of light in that new room that no walls or ceiling could be seen, if there were even any.

As he moved forward, Damian was reminded of the very first time he crossed that door, a few days after his coronation. He remembered how stunned he had been when he had realized that door was located on one of the outside walls of the Sanctotum -the eastern wall, to be precise-, and should have logically led outside. He had asked for a torch or a lantern, but had been told he wouldn’t need one. He remembered slowly walking up the stairs, just like he was doing now, and how amazed he had been to be able to see the steps so clearly in spite of the absence of any source of light. At first, he had believed that this whole thing was some kind of an act, meant to impress even an Emperor, not unlike those street magicians performing tricks for applause. But now that he had passed that door and walked those steps three times -four, counting this one-, he knew that what was on top of them didn’t care to impress anyone.

After a long climb -how long exactly, he couldn’t say-, he arrived at a circular platform. Once again, the Emperor couldn’t tell what it was made of. It vaguely looked like the coldstone used to make the door downstairs, but had a strange shiny quality to it. The first time Damian had come here, he had tried tapping his foot on the floor, only to find that his boots made no sound at all, no matter how hard he stomped.

With no more walls or ceiling than the stairs, the platform seemed to float amidst a great darkness. There was no light, and no sound or smell either. The place was in fact so silent that Damian could hear his own breathing, the beating of his heart, and even the blood pumping in his veins. Taking a deep breath, he stood at the center, and waited.

And waited.

And waited. It was impossible to measure time here, and in fact Damian had an odd feeling that it didn’t move at the same speed in this place. It could have been anywhere between half a summer hour and half a day before a bright, white light appeared before him, floating ten feet above the platform. It was very small at first, a little ball about the size of a candle’s flame, but it soon expanded into a large circle, maybe eight feet in diameter. As it grew, a strange sound seemed to come out of it, a high-pitched vibrating note that somewhat resembled a chant. The light looked like nothing seen in the world, stronger and brighter than even the sun. Yet, somehow, Damian could stare at it without burning his eyes.

A silhouette soon appeared in the circle, seeming to materialize from nowhere. The light shadowed its features. It was Human-like, except for the two large appendices on its back, which moved back and forth. A moment later, the large circle of light disappeared. The creature was floating about six feet away from Damian, who could now see it clearly in spite of the renewed darkness. It was a woman, with long, light brown hair, two yellow-gold eyes, and a very pale and impossibly flawless skin. Another man would have found her perfectly beautiful, maybe far more so than any women. Damian did not, in part because he knew her true nature, and in part because her beauty was in some ways too perfect –unnaturally perfect.

She stared down at the Emperor, her large wings of white feathers flapping very slowly, so slowly they shouldn’t be able to lift her off the ground, yet she kept exactly two feet above as if she was suspended in the air. Then, she spoke, with a sharp and musical voice that reminded Damian of the wind whistling between the mountains’ peaks.

“Your prayer has been heeded, Damian of the House Destrian, and here I am, sent by the Divine to hear you. I am the White Star.”

Damian frowned. No, you are not. He had met with the White Star the previous times. She had blonde hair, and was a few inches smaller than this Angel. Her voice was half an octave lower, as well. This was a different Angel. But perhaps “White Star” was a title, not a name? Another possibility, pondered by the Emperor a few times, was that their appearance was, at least in part, a glamour.

“I thank you for hearing me, Angel,” Damian said. Because he had to ask, he added: “Where is the Angel I met previously?”

“I am the White Star,” she repeated.

The Emperor decided to drop the matter. One had an easier time collecting milk from a chicken than information from an Angel.

“I have come to beseech the Divine’s help with two matters,” Damian said. “The Archdemons have invaded the South once more, burning its land and slaughtering its inhabitants. Many places of worship of the Divine have been defiled, their gold and their marble turned into offerings for the Armilus. Many of the Divine’s devouts have been murdered as well, their souls robbed by practitioners of the Forbidden Arcanes.

“The Empire and its subjects are fighting this enemy as much as they can, but still the war is poised to last for years, and claim thousands more victims.”

There was no discernable reaction from the Angel. Damian wondered, as he had many times in the past, if time or mortality meant anything to such creatures. He had mentioned that many of the victims were faithful followers of the Divine Church and even devouts, hoping that fact would tip the scales in his favor.

“They are led by the Archcommander,” he continued, “the Demon named Elyonn who believes himself to be the Armilus. He aims to defeat the Empire, destroy the Divine Church, and end the Divine’s rule over the realm.”

“The rule of the Divine cannot be denied,” the Angel said.

Well, that got her to react, Damian thought. The reaction was one of calm confidence, as if she was stating that the sky was blue, but it was a reaction nevertheless.

“Elyonn aims to deny it,” he said. “He, his Archdemons, his Legions, and his cohort of magis are poised to destroy the Church, as I said, as well as his weaponed arm the Inquisition. In addition to the places of worship, many commanderies have been destroyed.”

No doubt the Inquisitors had informed them of that already, but the reminder cost nothing.

“I have a plan to stop him, and end the conflict early. It will by no means be an easy undertaking, and there are many risks. Thus, I’ve come before you to implore the Divine’s assistance in this task.”

“The Divine does not concern Themself with the political squabbles of the mortals,” the Angel said.

Don’t they? The Inquisition was quite involved in more than a few political squabbles, and while lust for power was the main reason behind that, Damian suspected the Divine’s influence might also be a factor. After all, a greater control of the imperial society by the Inquisition meant in turn more power to the Divine and his Angels. Wasn’t the Inquisitors’ aim to accomplish Their will, after all?

The Divine Church taught that their divinity was above the flaws that plagued human nature, such as the desire for more power. Damian was skeptical. Would someone uninterested in power need worship?

“This is no mere political squabble,” he argued. “As I said, Elyonn’s enemy is not just the Empire, but the Divine Themself. The Divine may be far beyond his reach, but Their devouts are not. If he slaughters every last one of them, along with every Inquisitor and every faithful, something I’m sure he intends to do, who then will work to manifest Their will in this world? Who then will preserve the Sanctotums and the altars?”

A shadow clouded the Angel’s flawless face. She remained silent for a while.

“If what you say is true,” she said, “then the Divine will grant you the strength you need in your work.”

“I will require the Inquisition’s army to fight alongside ours,” the Emperor asked. “Their numbers and their powers will be needed.”

Damian had thought to ask the Inquisitors directly, but suspected they would have claimed being unable to help, arguing their losses or that the Divine needed them on another battlefield. Of course, they would have a harder time refusing an order coming from… a very different authority.

“Our soldiers are already fighting the enemy,” the Angel said.

“But not alongside us,” Damian argued. “For my plan to succeed, I need to be able to command them in battle.

“The army of the Divine is not yours to command,” she said, her eyes darkening.

“I understand that, and have no pretensions elsewise. However, to defeat Their enemy, it is necessary that the Inquisitors take my orders on the battlefield, and heed them. That command would be merely temporary. As soon as the plan has succeeded and the Archcommander been defeated, I will return this army to Their rightful owner. This I swear.

“I am the Emperor by the Divine will. As such, am I not the representative of said will in this world? For me to temporarily lead the Inquisition’s army is not an usurpation of the Divine’s command, but an extension of it. Such was the oath.”

That last argument was somewhat manipulative, and Damian knew it. From what little he knew of the Angels, they made a great deal of oaths. That included the oath Damian had taken on the day of his coronation, to rule justly, to protect the people and the realm, and to serve the Divine. That last part involved certain privileges, namely becoming -and being recognized as- the Divine’s agent. Essentially, by denying the request, the Angel would devalue the oath. Damian didn’t care to manipulate an Angel, but circumstances forced his hand; he had a duty to fulfill.

The Angel considered him, the shadow dissipating. She seemed to take a breath -assuming these creatures did breathe-, then said:

“Very well. Your ask will be honored: we will grant you temporary command of the Divine’s army. However, something will be asked of you in return.”

Damian nodded. Just as he expected.

“What will the Divine require?”

“This will be made clear at a later date. When the time comes, a High Inquisitor will seek you, and demand that you honor the White Star’s decree -those words exactly. You will then do as they request. Do you swear this before me, Damian, the third of your name?”

A blind favor then, he thought. Suppressing a sigh, he answered:

“I swear.”

A small part of him expected something dramatic to happen as he said those words. A great light, a burst of flames, maybe the sound of a horn coming from above. Nothing actually happened, yet Damian had a strange feeling, as if some invisible string was being tied around his throat.

“So it is sworn, so it will be,” the Angel said. “What of the other matter?”

“There is a man who has been cursed by the Forbidden Arcanes. His name is Jackson Pulver, and he fights the Hexacracy. I beseech help breaking the curse so that he may continue his war against the enemies of the Divine.”

“No.”

The answer had come abruptly, sharp as an executioner’s sword. Damian was intrigued to sense a hint of emotion in it.

“He has been cursed by a priest of Yerleg, one of those who worship the Archcommander as the so-called Armilus,” he insisted.

“Jackson Pulver will receive no help from the Divine,” the Angel.

The Emperor raised an eyebrow. “This man is also an important part of my plan against Elyonn. His loss will be damageable to our cause.”

“Do not defy the Divine, Damian.” The Angel’s voice had raised, cracking like thunder. “Jackson Pulver will receive no help from the Divine. This is Their utmost, inviolate order.”

“I understand,” Damian said, his teeth clenched. “Thank you for hearing my request.”

 “Return to your world now. And remember to honor the White Star’s decree.”

Another small light appeared, stretching into a great circle, surrounding the Angel. The circle then shrank back, and within moments the Angel was gone, leaving Damian alone. As he turned on his heels and walked back down the stairs, he thought back to what he had been made to swear. Though he had no intention of breaking a promise, especially not one made before a divinity, he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen should he prove unable to honor this future request.

As he had said, he was Emperor by the Divine will, but what if the Divine willed otherwise?

He arrived before the coldstone door, and knocked three times. Well, whatever this request would be, it would have to be done, no matter what. Choice was a luxury he couldn’t afford. “We are but instruments for the Divine, and honored to be,” the devouts said. Damian agreed with the first part. As for Sir Jackson Pulver, his hands were just as tied. The man and his allies would unfortunately have to help themselves. Much to his own surprise, Damian found himself praying for Pulver’s recovery. Praying to whom, he had no idea.

The door opened before him. He left that place, then headed out of the Sanctotum. The Angel knew of Jackson Pulver, he then thought. She knew of him, and appeared to be set against him. Why? What could possibly make the Angels dislike him? Was it because he came from another world? Damian sighed, and abandoned his speculations. It was pointless. Only the Angels were privy to their own plans; the High Inquisitors themselves might not know any part of it.

He left Roseval’s ruins the next morning, encircled by his group. By the time he made it back to camp, his mind was back to his plan. Without Sir Pulver, it would be more difficult, but still possible. He began sending letters to Sir Alster Roone and his other generals, ordering them to begin the preparations.

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