The Pulver Chronicles – 40. Make A Prayer For The Unknown Soldier

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

As a former Delta Force soldier and former operative of the agency, Byron had been taught to handle stressful situations. Infiltrations, ambushes, medical emergencies, combat situations of all sorts… He had known pain, wounds, loss, and tragedy. Stress was a known quantity to him. Sure, it had had its effects on him, the least of which was making him a heavy smoker, but overall he knew how to deal with it.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

Yet, somehow, he had bigger difficulties dealing with small annoyances. Like, for instance, a Hellhound scratching her claws for over half an hour, making an irksome sound not unlike grinding teeth. Lying on the floor of Alizana’s tent, he closed his eyes and tried to filter it out.

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

He didn’t ask her to stop, of course, as he knew this was how Alizana handled her stress. And he also knew she had several very valid reasons to be stressed.

The first reason was the battle of the Broken Teeth and its fallout. It had been a victory, yes, but a very costly one. In addition to the fact that the battle had to be rushed and the armies had not been sufficiently prepared to face a very dangerous enemy, Neasa’s reckless leading of the second corps had led to a great number of casualties on the Alliance’s side. The third corps had also suffered considerably. So far, the total was three hundred and forty-one dead, and about two hundred wounded. An additional twenty-some warriors and scouts couldn’t be located; that number was originally over thirty, but then a small group had found its way back to Vertrisia, leading to some hope that the rest of the missing might turn out alive as well. As to the prisoners made by the warrior-monks, an exact account couldn’t be made, but it was believed that upwards of fifty had been killed before the battle, their bodies devoured by the flames, their souls gathered for some dark purpose known only by the former Archpriest and his underlings.

After the Dusk Steppe, this battle was the most costly ever fought by the Hellhounds. At least three tribes had been entirely wiped at the Broken Teeth, and four more found themselves with less than ten living members left. One such tribe, the Hafa, had but two surviving tribemates, one of whom had lost her hand to a warrior-monk and would never be able to hunt again. Eventually, the Hafa decided to join the Mieto tribe, carrying the memories of their lost sisters; they were allowed to wear their former tribe’s colors in addition to the Mieto’s.

All in all, the Broken Teeth was guaranteed to be burned in the Hellhounds’ memories. A day of remembrance was decided by the chieftains. Ardito had begun working on an elegy that could be sung on that day; a wordless melody, as he said no lyrics could quite capture the pain of that battle. Tezrian, following the rites of trinitarism, had confided the fallen to the fire, before gathering the ashes in ceramic urns. She had had to work over the course of many days due to the numbers of bodies, even with the assistance of twenty priestesses; Alizana had helped as well, and had stayed until her last fallen sister was gone to the flames.

The second reason had a name: Neasa. Though her sister had been a source of stress and anxiety for Alizana for quite some time now, it had gotten worse in the days following the battle of the Broken Teeth. By now, everyone in Vertrisia had heard the news: the Archpriest Yerleg was dead, and Neasa had dealt the killing blow. She had even kept her head as a trophy, and had it preserved. As predicted, that achievement had increased her popularity among Hellhounds. Those who loved her for her actions at Polran Keep now nearly worshipped her for slaying an Archdemon.

According to direct witnesses, it had been quite a fight too. She had engaged the Archpriest head on, dodging his spells, blocking his attacks, and striking with vicious strength every time she found an opening. Yerleg had fought with all of his might, physical and magical, and even received the assistance of several of his warrior-monks. Undeterred, Neasa had kept attacking, inflicting three wounds for every one she received. Eventually, the Archpriest had been too weakened by the blood loss to keep on fighting. Having lost his helmet, everyone could see how the deep red of his skin had turned to a terribly pale pink with blue hues. His sword arm, whose artery had been cut twice at wrist level, had eventually dropped his weapon. Then, it had only been a matter for Neasa to remove his gorget, then slash his throat deep enough that one of the warriors swore she could see bone.

“Whatever else she is,” Byron had said hearing the testimonies of the fight, “she’s not a coward.”

“She never was. And when blood starts flowing, it drowns any fear she may have,” Alizana had replied. “I believe she would have kept fighting him even if she was alone against his whole army at that point.”

As to the numerous Hellhounds warriors who had fallen that day because of her reckless offensive, while Neasa had shown some chagrin, it was evident from the short speech she gave at the ceremonial cremation that she considered them a necessary sacrifice, and had no regrets. Alizana didn’t know which possibility was worse: that Neasa had sacrificed so many of her sisters for her own glory, or that she had been so taken by the fight, so obsessed with killing Yerleg and his warrior-monks that she had abandoned all care, all restraint. It didn’t help that those possibilities were not mutually exclusive.

Alizana was not alone in blaming Neasa for the battle’s terrible cost. Quite a few Hellhounds, mostly relatives or friends of the fallen, held her responsible for the death of many of their own. The Hellhounds didn’t do polling, but at a guess, they were about as many to hate her for her actions as there were to love her. Once again, Neasa proved polarizing.

The third reason for Alizana’s stress also had a name. In fact, it had two names: Jackson and Byron. A two-headed problem, as Byron’s old handler would have called it. During the battle of the Broken Teeth, one of the priests had used a blood sacrifice to cast some strange spell on Jackson. Ever since, Jackson had gone quiet, leaving Byron in charge of the body –Jackson’s body, Byron mentally corrected.

Byron found that situation strange, strange beyond description. He had used Jackson’s body before, quite a few times in fact, but only temporarily, never occupying it for more than an hour -and usually much less longer. This time around, he was not just the driver, but the only person in the car. Jackson, usually very loquacious when in the passenger’s seat, couldn’t be heard at all. It was as if the body truly was Byron’s, even though he knew damn well it wasn’t.

Strange, and wrong. Even though he could now smell, taste, and touch like he could back when he was incarnated in his own body, Byron did not like being in sole command of this body. It felt like a violation of the worst kind, an extreme form of parasitism. In fact, he felt like those flatworms he had read about, who invaded the brains of ants, then took it over, effectively turning the ants into zombies under their thrall.

But the worst part of that situation was of course Jackson’s state. Or rather: what little they knew of Jackson’s state. Byron was confident he was not dead, based on some strange intuitive knowledge he had. It seemed instead that Jackson had been placed into a coma, a deep, magical coma from which he couldn’t wake up. It wasn’t like that spell he had fallen under when the Cambion had gotten hold of him, back in Atvello. Jackson neither dreamt nor thought, and remained entirely -and eerily- quiet.

Byron had not realized how much he would miss Jackson’s incessant talking or his exuberance until the second day he woke in his body, and was greeted by silence. The veteran was used to solitude, and in many ways had grown to prefer it, but this particular kind of loneliness weighed down on him.

Understandably, Byron had to keep away from people as much as possible ever since the battle of the Broken Teeth. He was supposed to be cursed; to see him go about his duties and chores as usual might have aroused suspicions. In addition, people too well acquainted with him might have noticed something off in him. Best not to raise any questions, he, Sathariel, and Alizana had decided.

To make this complicated situation even worse, Byron had started to feel ill in the last few days. He regularly had headaches, he would occasionally lose his appetite, his vision blurred at times, and his breathing would sometimes turn to coughing. He wasn’t sure whether this was a consequence of the curse or of his unique situation vis-a-vis Jackson.

And Byron wasn’t the only one to be adversely affected by Jackson’s… disappearance. As mentioned, this had caused Alizana no small amount of distress. She had tried many things to get her loved one back, so far to no avail; there didn’t seem to be a single magi in the Southern Alliance who knew how to deal with the Forbidden Arcanes. Tezrian and Enita were still looking, but had given no news in the last few days. 

Byron sympathized with Alizana, but could do nothing to help her, and in fact elected to stay clear of her as much as he could for the time being, taking his meals apart from her and sleeping in a different tent. Indeed, his very presence unnerved Alizana. Byron could only imagine what she thought and how she felt when she looked at him. At times, when he approached her -when he was forced to-, he could see in her eyes a light of hope briefly appear, only to be immediately doused by the realization that, no, this wasn’t truly Jackson Pulver. There had been a couple of occasions when she had reflexively raised her paw to touch him, only to remember this wasn’t her mate she was reaching out to. This was made all the more confusing to her by the fact that his smell was identical.

Yes, overall, Alizana had excellent reasons to be stressed out. The claw-scratching sounds she made were still irritating, though.

Sitting on the tent’s floor by her side, Sathariel kept his mind busy by doing a few writing exercises. He had been very focused on his work and his exercises lately, a common and effective way to focus his thoughts away from something. Something like, say, his closest friend being cursed with no apparent way to help him.

“Should we send someone?” the young Demon said, raising his head, suddenly breaking the silence which had ruled the tent’s mood for over forty minutes now. “They’re getting late.”

Nobody answered, so he went back to his exercises.

Byron crossed his hand over his stomach, and breathed deeply, feeling another headache coming. Those headaches were not as intense as the migraines he suffered in his previous life, brought on by -what else?- stress, but they were still strong enough to make him nauseous. Occasionally, he would chew on some dried myuca leaves, which was rather effective against the pain. He didn’t dare use too much of these, however, fearing he might become psychologically or even physically addicted. From what Sathariel had told him of their habitual users, either seemed very possible.

Perhaps an hour had passed, in near complete silence saved for Alizana scratching her claws and Sathariel’s quill scratching paper -the latter was thankfully much quieter-, when noise was heard from outside the tent. Byron distinctly heard shoes and boots walking the thin cover of snow on the ground. Five people. By the stomping noise, he could tell two of them were Hellhounds; it was hard to believe those massive creatures could actually be quite stealthy when they wanted to. The rest must have been Humans, Demons, or Humanoids of relatively similar weight.

He had guessed right. Two Nehan warriors came in a few seconds later, escorting the priestess Tezrian, Enita, and a middle-aged Human Byron had never met before. He sat up, and gave the newcomer a quick but analytical look -almost a reflex, for the veteran. The man was of average size, with a lean and bony silhouette, and olive skin. His face was bare of any facial hair; even his eyebrows were just two very thin, pale lines. His nose looked like it had been shortened by a third, possibly in an accident. He was both prematurely balding and greying; evidently, he too knew a few things about stress. An expression of calm confidence animated his traits, underlined by the wrinkles of his large forehead. His accoutrement -a pink shirt, a dark red tunic, and red-brown pants, all of it made out of finely sewn linen- indicated he had gotten used to an affluent lifestyle, however the fact that he didn’t seem particularly bothered by the spartan environment of the Neha camp led Byron to think he didn’t actually come from money. Byron saw no weapon on him, with the small exceptions of a little utility knife and a pair of scissors on his belt. As to the bag on his side, Byron assumed the Hellhounds with him had looked through it and found nothing threatening.

The man glanced at Byron, and gave a brief version of the imperial salute, barely acknowledging Alizana and Sathariel. Tezrian and Enita excused themselves.

“Good day to you,” he said in a gravelly voice. “My name is Garry Hills of Sevenfalls, healer to the Emperor. You must be Sir Jackson Pulver.”

“I must be,” Byron said. “Healer to the Emperor? I take it he sent you, then.”

“Just so, sire. Do you mind if…?” He gestured to Byron’s body, indicating his wish to examine him.

“Go ahead.”

The healer nodded, got down on one knee, and laid down his bag. He looked into Byron’s eyes, gazing intently for a while, his cold blue eyes reflecting a professional interest. He turned Byron’s head to the side, then to the other. His hands were warm, and smelled of citrus. A small hum dripped out of his lips as he leaned back. He retrieved a small stone bowl from his bag, as well as a few dried leaves of different colors. The leaves were crushed into small pieces, dropped in the bowl, then burnt. The healer’s gestures were quick and precise, Byron couldn’t see exactly how he had burned the leaves, although in the absence of any tool, magic was a good guess.

“How did the Emperor know of… my condition?” Byron asked.

“Hmm?” The healer blinked. “Ah, you’re asking the wrong person, sir Jackson. I’m privy to the affairs of neither the army or the state.”

Very curious, Byron thought. They had sent no letter or communication to the Emperor recently, and even if they had, they would not have mentioned Jackson being cursed. Perhaps the rumor had circulated, along with news of the battle of the Broken Tooth? But even most Hellhounds and virtually all of the Southern Alliance didn’t know. Alizana, Byron, and Sathariel had preferred to keep that under wraps, for fear that the Hexacracy would learn of their weakness.

Did the Emperor have his magis scry the information, then? No, not likely. Jackson -and then Byron- had kept close to Tezrian the whole time, and she knew how to protect herself and her surroundings from scrying. It would not have been possible in Vertrisia either, given the Elves’ magic.

Hills moved the bowl slowly above Byron, forming an eight, his lips whispering a long incantation.. After a few minutes, he placed the bowl, now no longer smoking, to his side, and held Byron’s left hand. Two of his fingers went to touch Byron’s wrist; the healer was apparently knowledgeable of heartbeats and how to measure them. His healing abilities were not entirely magical in nature, it seemed, but also included some empirical knowledge.

“Yes,” he muttered when he was finally done. “There is little doubt you are under the weight of a soul curse, cast by blood. The work of the Second Forbidden Arcane, certainly.”

“We already knew as much,” Sathariel said.

“Given its potency, I can only presume as to the nature of the sacrifice necessary to birth it.”

“A man was set afire,” Alizana said.

“I see,” Hills said, his expression still neutral. “I am surprised to see you awake at all, Sir Jackson. A lesser man would be unconscious and impossible to wake up by any means.”

“We have some magic of our own,” Sathariel lied. “Enough to alleviate the curse, but no more.”

The healer looked at the young Demon as if he was seeing him for the first time, and blinked.

“Really? That is no small feat.”

“Can you lift that curse?” Byron said, surprised to hear his voice sound so weak.

Hills reported his attention to him. “I’m afraid the answer to that question is somewhat complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“I possess the required knowledge to break such a curse, I think, but there is the matter of the means.”

“What means would that be?” Sathariel asked.

“The power necessary to overcome the curse’s own power. It has to be at least equal, naturally. Like for like.”

“You mean we need a human sacrifice,” Byron said.

“It is the first way that comes to mind, yes,” the healer said. “A barbaric but effective way to obtain potency. You’ll understand I will do no such thing. Even if I dared defy the stringent code of my guild -and I never will-, I simply do not know how to use a soul to fuel my magic.”

“We would never ask you to do that,” Alizana said.

Sathariel gave her the side eye, but kept quiet.

“There are other means to gather sufficient power,” Tezrian said.

“Perhaps, but none are convenient,” Hills said. “I understand the Inquisitors can work wonders while inside the Sanctotums, where they draw power, supposedly, directly from the Divine. Some shamans derive such power from the spirits, and druids from their environment, so I’ve been told. But I’m given to understand you have neither shamans or druids among your numbers.”

“The Elves do,” Sathariel said. “Maybe they can help us.”

“It’s worth a try,” Alizana said, suddenly animated. “Healer, would you be willing to accompany us? It is a day of travel away.”

The healer answered Byron as if he had been the one asking: “You are my patient, sir Jackson. Along with the Emperor’s orders, my oath dictates that I must do what I can to ensure your recovery. I will do the journey, of course.”

“Then let’s go,” Byron said.

He stood up, too quickly, and the headache flared, half-blinding him and making him groan. Without a word, the healer brushed the tip of his index and middle fingers along Byron’s forehead. The pain dissipated within seconds, and his vision cleared up. The healer, it seemed, could not presently deal with the curse, but he could diminish its symptoms.

The journey was prepared quickly; Alizana, Byron, Sathariel, and two Neha huntresses departed the next day after dawn. As he climbed on Florid, Byron realized his limbs felt weaker than usual, and his reflexes were slower as well. It was as if he had caught a bad case of the flu. Those symptoms in themselves were not quite as worrying as the fact that Byron was certain he didn’t feel as weak or as slow a few days before. The curse was worsening. He kept this to himself, not wishing to burden Alizana and Sathariel any further. The Hellhound chieftain already looked like she had barely slept through the night.

Nothing happened as they traveled to the Elves’ lands, other than a bit of snow falling through the day. This time, it was only very little, not enough to cover the ground or stay on the leaves for more than a few hours. As to the snow already on the ground, it would likely be gone by the next day. Several Elven children, met by Alizana’s party as they approached the nearest Elf tribe, seemed to realize this, as they played in it with the greatest energy. Byron didn’t see any adults overseeing the children. Seeing the party, three of the young Elves ran off, probably to warn of their arrival.

Indeed, by the time they arrived at the village proper, five Elves were waiting for them. Byron asked to see Bonnie, and was informed that she was already on her way. The group was made to wait in the meantime. They were not invited in any of the Elves’ wooden houses, or offered any food or drinks. In fact, none of the Elves present even tried to engage in conversation -not that any member of the group knew any Elven anyway. The atmosphere felt colder than the snow. Being allies does not make us friends, Byron thought, remembering one of his lessons at West Point.

Bonnie Gardner arrived less than an hour later. She had managed to approach the group so stealthily that even Byron had not noticed her until she called out to them. A particularly impressive feat, given that her horse had evidently arrived at galloping speed. Another example of Elven magic, or did the Elves know some interesting horse riding tricks for travelling undetected?

The situation was quickly explained to her. She did a few double takes, then turned to Byron.

“Shit, Jack. You really know how to get in trouble, don’t you?”

“Tell me about it,” Byron said.

“Yeah, our shamans would know how to do that thing your healer said about drawing power from nature.” 

She licked the corner of her lips, an odd look on her face.

“What?” Byron said.

“I guess the question is: are they going to?”

“What do you mean, are they going to?” Alizana intervened. “We need their assistance to remove the curse.”

“Things are… complicated, right now.”

Everything is “complicated”, today, Byron thought.

“You mean they don’t want to help us,” the Hellhound chieftain said.

“It’s not-” Bonnie tutted. “No, it’s not that. Look, I’ll take you to the shamans, they’ll explain it to you.”

Alizana, Sathariel, and Byron were led to a nearby grove, in which was a cairn much like the one where Jackson had found Bonnie again. Here they met with the tribe’s shaman, a woman named Nawaeni. Much like with the vast majority of Elves, it was nearly impossible to guess her exact age by her appearance. Though her hair seemed somewhat discolored, and a few wrinkles marred her forehead, she still could have been anywhere between forty and sixty years old. There was a dark weariness to her expression, which seemed to intensify as she glanced at Alizana and Byron. The latter believed he recognized that weariness: it was the one that accompanied an important but draining duty. Bonnie relayed Byron’s situation to the shaman in Elven. Even to Byron who didn’t speak a word of that language, Bonnie’s difficulties were obvious: she used mostly short, simple words, and stumbled upon some of the most difficult ones. When she finished speaking, the shaman’s answer came out short and abrupt, accompanied by a shaking of her head.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Bonnie sighed. “They can’t do anything right now.”

“Why not?” Alizana asked through clenched fangs. “What’s going on here?”

The shaman, who apparently understood the imperial tongue even though she didn’t care to speak it, muttered a few words that sounded impolite.

“Let’s just say we’ve got our own problems, right now,” Bonnie said.

“What kind of problems?” Byron said.

“It’s a long story. Look, the bottom line is, we don’t have much magical energy to spare right now, and of what little we have, we need every ounce.”

“For what? What is it you’re not telling us?” Byron insisted.

Bonnie sighed again, and pinched her nose. She looked at the shaman and exchanged a few words.

“I’m not supposed to tell you much about this. Some of this stuff is kept secret by our tribes. The gist of it is… Well, like we said, we use the forest’s energy to power our spells and stuff, right?”

Alizana and Byron nodded.

“That energy comes from forest life. The grass, the bushes, the trees, even the bugs and stuff.”

“Ah. I don’t imagine there is much forest life in winter,” Alizana said.

“Yeah, exactly. Anyway, part of that energy is used to fuel our defensive spells. You know, how we shield ourselves from scrying, that thing that makes traveling through our woods confusing, and all that.”

“I see,” Alizana said. “That’s what you meant when you said you need what little energy you have.”

Bonnie licked her lips again. “Partly.”

“What else?”

“Like I said, things are… complicated,” she said, giving the shaman another look. She cleared her throat, and went on: “Let’s just say, we’re dealing with some consequences from the last battle.”

“You’re still being vague,” Byron said. “ Is it about the casualties you suffered? Don’t tell me your people resent us for this.”

While the Elven clans had still not officially joined the war effort, nearly three hundred Elves had volunteered to join the battle of the Broken Teeth, as archers in the first and second corps, or as scouts in the third and fourth. While their numbers had mostly been protected by the Hellhound warriors, a good few had lost their lives on the battlefield.

“No… I mean, nobody’s happy about that, of course, but they knew what they were signing up for. The thing is, all those people that got sacrificed by the priest… Your curse is not the only consequence of that.”

She gestured at the snow.

“Wait, you mean…” Byron said.

“Yeah, this cold isn’t natural. It’s an effect of the magic of Yerleg’s priests. And it’s focused on Vertrisia and its surroundings. The northern Marches are not affected as much.”

“Was that what they were planning?” Alizana said. “To create a cold winter? It seems a little lackluster.”

“Only because you interrupted their ritual before it was over. From what we can tell, it was gonna take weeks of incantation, and consume all the lives of their prisoners -probably more. They were probably trying to make it last the whole year, to destroy our crops. Hell, they might have wanted to unleash a blizzard on us.”

“I see,” Byron said. “So you’re saying your shamans have to fight against the effects of that curse as well.”

“That’s right. And… I definitely should not be telling you that, but they’re having a hard time doing both at the same time: protecting the forest and fighting against the weather.”

Nawaeni tutted and started reprimanding Bonnie, who defended herself:

“They’re our allies, we can trust them!”

“I take it your shamans don’t want people to know about your vulnerability,” Byron said.

“If it were up to them,” Bonnie huffed, “we wouldn’t be telling anyone anything.” In English, she added: “They sure love their secrets.”

“So there’s nothing they can do for us,” Alizana said.

“Not right now. The shamans say it’s gonna take a few months to sort out this weather curse. I’m really sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Byron said.

“Are you going to be okay? You don’t seem worse for wear. A little tired, maybe.”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll find another way.”

“I hope you do,” Bonnie said. “If there’s anything I can do to help…”

Byron and Alizana thanked her, then left the Elves’ territory, having no reason to stay any longer. Back at the Neha camp, the healer was offered some accommodation in an available hut. As soon as the three were alone, Sathariel, who had kept quiet during the journey, said to Alizana and Byron:

“There may be another way to break the curse. Ourselves.”

“What’s that?” Alizana said.

“We have captured a few warrior-monks. At least two of them are priests.”

“Do you mean to sacrifice them?” The Hellhound sniffed with disdain.

“Normally, I wouldn’t suggest such a thing. But they’re responsible for this. Taking their lives to undo what they’ve done… I suppose that would be a form of justice.”

“No, absolutely not.” Alizana said sharply. “We will not lower ourselves to use their methods.”

“Not that we know how to use those methods, anyway,” Byron pointed out. “This would just be an execution, and a pointless one at that. The healer said he won’t -and can’t- help us with this.”

“What about Tezrian? She might know,” Sathariel said. “She used to be with the House of the Living Flame. It could be that she was taught some of the Secret Arcanes.”

“That does not matter,” Alizana said, raising her voice. “We will not do this.”

“You won’t kill a criminal to save an innocent?” Byron said. “Isn’t that what you’re doing every time you take up arms against the Hexacracy?”

“This is different. You’re talking about using souls, about calling upon the Forbidden Arcanes. Who knows what manner of horrors we may unveil if anything goes wrong? Or if anything goes right?”

“We may not have a choice.”

“I will not make this decision,” Alizana insisted.

“Even if it means you’ll never see Jackson again?”

Anger and grief flared up in the Hellhound chieftain’s eyes as she raised a threatening claw towards him. “Do not try to use his name to manipulate me, Byron. Jack would not want us to do this. And I think you know that.”

The veteran sighed and rubbed his forehead. She was right, of course. Much like her, Jackson was the sort of person who valued his principles, perhaps more so than his life. The sort of person who wanted to do what was right, no matter what. He oddly reminded Byron of another young man he used to know, long ago, in a different life.

“Let’s just ask Tezrian if she does know anything about soul magic,” Sathariel said. “The debate is moot if she doesn’t.”

“True,” Byron said. “I’ll ask her.”

True to form, the priestess was found by the fire at the center of the camp, engaged in a conversation with Ardito. “Conversation” was perhaps not the right word, Byron thought: Ardito was doing most of the talking, with Tezrian only occasionally interjecting, usually with one-word answers. From what the veteran could overhear, the minstrel was working on another song, this one dedicated to the priestess. The latter was not enthused by the idea, although she didn’t reject it outright.

“But of course, it will be sung,” Ardito said. The unusually cold winter, it seemed, had not altered his energy. “Of course, of course! The Demon priestess, herald of the True Flame, going to battle against the warrior-monks of Anjramaynya, ax in hand. Oh, the ax! Do tell: do you set it ablaze when fighting?”

“Sometimes,” Tezrian said.

“Ah-ah, yes! A fiery ax. Excellent imagery. Oh, but here is the hero Mad Jack! How fare you on this bitterly chill day?”

“I’m fine,” Byron said, warming his hands over the fire.

“Glad am I to hear it, sir Mad Jack. I’ve heard you suffered an unfortunate fate in the last battle.”

Even he knows about that. Of course: he was there. He must have heard people talking.

“I heal fast. Could you leave us, please? I’d like to talk with Tezrian alone.”

“Certainly, sir. A good day to you, sir, my lady.”

With a deep and quick bow, he made himself scarce. Byron waited until he was long gone, made sure no one else was within earshot, then spoke to Tezrian.

“The Elves can’t help us with my problem.”

“Yes, I assumed as much when I saw you come back,” she said.

“Sathariel has another idea. We’re hoping you can help us with it.”

Tezrian looked at him.

“Do you know anything about the Second Forbidden Arcane?”

“Do you mean: would I know how to kill a person, and then use his soul to fuel a curse-breaking spell?”

“Yes,” Byron said.

Hesitation lit up in her eyes as they swivelled to the right, in the direction of the fire.

“I might…” she said.

“Let me guess: it’s not that simple,” Byron snarked.

“There is nothing simple about the Secret Arcanes,” Tezrian said seriously. “What I meant was, I do not currently possess such knowledge. But there is a way for me to obtain it.”

“In your flames?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

Unlike Jackson, Byron had no fascination for magic. In fact, the more he learned of it, the more he grew to dislike it. As the saying went, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely; Byron knew that to be true. Magic seemed, to him at least, like the closest thing to absolute power one could get in a lifetime. But, in this case like in many others, he also believed the end justified the means. This body he was using was not his; it seemed to do everything it could to make that clear, between the headaches, the weakness, and the nausea. Jackson was somewhere in there, hopefully asleep, but possibly conscious and trapped with no way to communicate. Byron believed he had a duty to him, to do everything he could to remedy the situation.

That being said, the idea of praying to the flames hoping for a deus ex machina seemed… optimistic, to put it mildly. Sure, the priestess claimed to have seen much in those fires of hers, and while Byron was willing to believe in scrying, how many times did she peer into the flames and see nothing? But, as too often, there was no better alternative.

“All right, try that.”

Tezrian nodded, and began her scrying ritual. Having observed her regularly over the last few days, Byron had noted how many rituals she had, and how important they seemed to be for her. She had some for simple actions like eating -always holding a knife in her left-hand, though she was right-handed for virtually everything else, and poking every piece of meat with it before eating-, riding a horse -she tapped the saddle three times, placed her foot in the left stirrup, pushed down on it as if to test its strength, then finally climbed on-, or before sparring -praying to her ax, then drawing an invisible sigil on the headpiece with three fingers.

Her scrying ritual consisted of clasping her hands in prayer, bowing once, unclasping her hands and raising them above her head, bowing again, then taking a deep breath. She did exactly that, with no deviation from her norm, then stared at the flames. Byron noticed she didn’t even blink; maybe this too was part of the ritual. Moments passed, turning into minutes. The waiting soon stretched into half an hour, and threatened to turn into a full hour. Suppressing a sigh, Byron grabbed a stool and sat down. Normally, in such circumstances, he would have smoked a cigarette or two to kill time. Of course, there were no cigarettes around, and he wouldn’t do that in someone else’s body, but it was interesting to note he didn’t even feel the compulsion to smoke; the simple explanation to that was probably that he had lost his addiction along with his own body. Instead, he pulled out his ax from his belt, and took to cleaning it with a piece of wet cloth, noting how Jackson had neglected to do so -and to sharpen it, too.

Usually, Tezrian would remain expressionless as she scrutinized her flames. This time, however, Byron noticed a nuance in her body language. At first, she seemed to stagger a little. Then, her eyes peeled open in a mix of surprise and confusion. It only lasted a moment, and soon she was back to her marble-like self. She turned to Byron and said:

“The fire… wishes to speak with you.”

“Excuse me?” Byron said.

“The fire wishes to speak with you,” she said again, forcing her voice.

More than a little bemused, Byron stood up and approached the campfire. He peered into the flames; strangely, his eyes didn’t sting or tear up. He focused for a while, but saw nothing but hot plasma.

“Should I say something or…” he muttered.

“I would indeed prefer a dialogue over a monologue.”

Byron reared back. A voice had, unmistakably, risen from the fire. A strange voice, cracking like the flames; the tone sounded unnatural, as if the voice was created artificially. The veteran immediately felt foolish for his surprise. With a frown, he addressed the fire:

“Who are you?”

“My name is Azazel. I believe you know of me.”

As the voice spoke, the flames began moving uncannily, as if twitching and stretching to the voice’s tune. In their move, they adopted a strange shape, resembling a face. Two small horizontal slits for eyes, one long and larger for mouth. Byron doubted it was an illusion -or if it was, it was no simple illusion.

“You are the Archmage of the Occultatum, and one of the six rulers of the Hexacracy,” Byron said. “I’d say you know of me, as well. You’ve shown some interest in me.”

“I have. In both of you.”

Of course she knows, Byron thought. Or does she?…

“Shatters-the-Shields interests you as well?” he said.

“Now, now, it is pointless to act the fool. You must know I meant Jackson Pulver and you, his… passenger.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Byron said with some sardonicism.

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. I had wished for this meeting for a long time.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say you only get to meet with one of us today.”

“Indeed, I have been informed of your predicament. Quite unfortunate. I assume my priestess reached out to me because you found no help with either the Inquisition or the Vertrisian Elves.”

“We haven’t even tried to ask the Inquisition.”

“A wise decision,” Azazel said. “They know of one surefire way to deal with anything related to the Secret Arcanes, and I don’t think you’d consider it a solution.”

“No, I would not.” Byron glanced at Tezrian and asked her: “Can you hear her too?”

Tezrian did not react. She did not even move: not her head, not her eyes, not even her chest. In fact, Byron only then noticed that she and everything around them seemed to have frozen. He himself could barely move.

“She cannot,” the Archmage confirmed. “Nor can she hear you. You might not have noticed, but you are not actually speaking out loud right now.”

Byron had not, in fact, noticed. 

“Interesting little trick,” he said.

“Yes, but quite draining. I’m afraid I will not be able to continue this conversation for very long. If you don’t mind, let us get directly to business.”

Byron raised an eyebrow. “Sure, let’s do that. Can you remove my curse?”

“Yes, I believe I can,” Azazel said.

“All right. Will you?”

“Yes I will, but I cannot do so like this. Your effective presence is necessary for this to work.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to come down here to meet with us,” Byron said with a sigh.

“No, I’m afraid that is not convenient for me. I will grant you access to my Occultatum, and send you a guide.”

“Just like that?” The veteran sniffed. “And what will you ask for in exchange?”

“In exchange?”

“You said you wanted to get directly to business, so let’s not waste time pretending you’re going to help me for free. What do you want?”

The face had been completely impavid through the conversation, and remained so. Still, Byron believed he heard a slight change in tone when the Archmage spoke again.

“I wish to talk.”

The veteran frowned. “To talk, that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Just so we’re clear, you, an Archdemon of the Hexacracy, wish to talk with me, one of the leaders of the Southern Alliance?”

“We can put it like that, I suppose,” Azazel said.

“And what do you want to talk about? The war? Or why you’ve been keeping tabs on me- on us?”

“Amongst other things, yes. Do we have an agreement?”

Byron crossed his arms. “How do I know you’re not just luring me into your lair? To be captured and held hostage, or simply executed?”

“I suppose you can’t know that, save for the fact that it wouldn’t be a particularly complicated trap. This line of communication may break at any moment now. Do we have an agreement?”

There was quite a list of things Byron detested. It included various items ranging from his parents to black olives, including bone pains. If ever he decided to rank those things by how much he hated them, at the top of that list would be: being in a situation in which he has no choice, and no recourse. Byron was something of a control freak, and he knew it -though he didn’t think it was necessarily a bad thing, especially in his former line of work.

This was exactly that sort of situation. He was trapped. In fact, he had been trapped ever since he woke up as a soul tethered to another person’s body, in a different world, with nothing he could do about either. But now, he was also trapped with a curse, and his only way out involved trusting an enemy.

She said she wanted to talk. Nothing more, just talk. This made Byron especially distrustful. Breaking this damned curse was no small feat, yet that was all she asked in return for it? Just how badly did she want to meet with him and Jackson, and more importantly, why?

“Fine, we have a deal,” Byron sighed. “How long will the journey take?”

“Not very long at all. My envoy will arrive tomorrow after dusk. Goodbye, Lord Byron.”

In the blink of an eye, the shape in the flames had disappeared. Byron rubbed his eyes and looked away. At his side, Tezrian jerked back, looking suddenly very tired -drained, even- and confused.

“Go ahead, gaze into the fire and you will hear,” she said, her voice nearly extinct.

“Our… conversation is over,” Byron said with a little smile.

“You… But… Ah… I see.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose, prey to both fatigue and confusion. “This was… This wasn’t… This wasn’t how it usually… I… If you’ll excuse me, I need to rest.”

He watched her go back to her tent, mentally assembling a few more pieces to one big puzzle he had been working on since Atvello. Several mysteries occupying his mind had just found an explanation, or at least the beginning of one. He would have a lot of questions to ask the Archlady Azazel… and a lot of accusations to make, as well.

The strange weakness wearing him down had gotten back by sunset, and grew worse; Byron knew it had nothing to do with the natural tiredness that concluded a busy day. Another symptom had appeared: dizziness, with a side of disorientation. Before he went to bed, he visited the imperial healer, requested his little fix once more, then thanked him for his help and told him his presence would no longer be needed.

“I’m very sorry I couldn’t be of much help, sir Jackson,” Hills said. “I do not know whether you assign much faith in prayer, but know that you shall be in mine.”

“I appreciate it,” Byron said.

Hills offered to stay a little longer in Vertrisia, and help with the wounded from the last battle; Alizana was thankful for the offer. Byron went to bed. The healer’s magic allowed him to do some reading before going to sleep, though it wasn’t long before his vision blurred again.

Morning came. Over breakfast, Byron quickly explained the last development to Sathariel and Alizana. Both were understandably shocked and apprehensive.

“You’re going to meet with an Archdemon?” Sathariel said. “Are you sure you thought this through?”

“This makes no sense,” Alizana said. “For what possible reason would she help you? I can’t think of any, and I can think of many reasons why she wouldn’t. Your death would be a great boon to the Hexacracy. And all the more power and influence to her if she does the deed!”

“I considered that, yes,” Byron said. “But after thinking about it, I don’t think this is a trap. At least, not a lethal trap. Azazel needs me alive.”

“Why?” Alizana asked.

“That’s the question, isn’t it? Look, I told you she’s had an interest in me and Jackson for a while now.”

“Well, why do you think that is?” Sathariel said.

“My best guess is: because she has a plan, and we are part of it.”

“But what plan?” Alizana said, getting agitated. “What does she want? Azazel is an Archmage, a powerful one. In the Hexacracy, she was known for lurking in the shadows and dabbling in the Forbidden Arcanes. And now you say she has been spying on you? Byron, this is not a good idea. Nothing good will come out of this meeting.”

“I agree it’s not an appealing option. And yet, it’s the only one we have left.”

Alizana sighed, dropping her shoulders and her lupine ears. Sathariel put down his plate of fried mushrooms, having lost his appetite. The day went by quickly, Byron having to lay down and sleep through a part of it due to his fatigue. The three met again around the campfire in the evening, once again alone. They had dinner, then waited.

“Well then, when is this envoy supposed to arrive?” the young Demon asked as the sun was setting and the waning gibbous moon appeared. “We haven’t heard anything from the sentries.”

“She only said he would arrive after dusk,” Byron said.

“But that makes no sense. She also told you the journey would take a month. That means she sent that envoy a month ago. How could she have known about the curse a month ago? Unless…”

He quieted down. The unspoken thought had occurred to Byron as well. Was it possible the Archlady had been behind the curse? It would have made sense for her to create the problem only to offer the solution. But how could she had possibly planned for that priest to place the curse on Jackson? Unless she could see the future, there was no-

Alizana jumped off the log she was sitting on, her ears raised, her nostrils flared.

“Someone is coming,” she said. “I hear footsteps.”

It took a few seconds for Byron to hear them as well. They were very faint, and only audible because of what little snow was left from yesterday. Definitely not a Hellhound. They also sounded too light to be either a Human or a Demon. Maybe something smaller like a Goblin?

The newcomer came into view, and both Alizana and Sathariel gaped. Skin darker than charcoal, four twisted horns, and deep red eyes… There was no doubt this was a Cambion.

“Sir, I have come to take you to the Archlady Azazel,” they said, bowing their head a couple inches.

“How did you get here?” Alizana said. “None of my sentries saw you.”

“Are you ready to depart?” the Cambion asked Byron, ignoring the query.

“I am,” Byron said. Let’s get this over with.

“Hold on, I’m coming with you,” Alizana said.

“I was told to bring only him,” the Cambion said, suddenly reacting to her.

“You’ll be bringing me as well,” she insisted.

“Alizana, it’s fine,” Byron said.

“No, it’s not. I told you, I don’t like this. I will come and meet with Azazel as well, and make sure nothing happens to Jackson.”

“If it’s a trap, better we don’t both fall in it.”

“My instructions are clear: I am to take him and only him,” the Cambion said.

The Hellhound chieftain crossed her arms and angrily muttered something under her breath, but relented. Byron took a deep breath.

“All right. I’ll get my horse and we’ll be off.”

“That will not be necessary,” the Cambion said.

Byron frowned. “Surely you don’t expect us to walk there.”

The creature stepped closer to Byron without answering, and placed a hand on his torso. Their red eyes closed for a moment, then reopened. Suddenly, a thick curtain of smoke appeared, wrapping around them like a cocoon and making the world disappear. It was so thick the moon’s light was blocked, plunging Byron in the darkness. He reacted by grabbing the Cambion’s wrist, trying to twist it off him, but their claws held tightly onto his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Do not interrupt the ritual”, the Cambion said. “It is nearly done.”

Before Byron had time to ask what it was supposed to accomplish, the smoke went away, as if siphoned by an invisible vacuum. The moonlight was back, along with the rest of the scenery. But it was now a very different scenery. Byron gaped. The Neha camp was gone, as was the Vertrisian Forest, and even the sky. He and the Cambion now stood inside of a building, made out of dark stones. It was quite dark, in spite of the natural light coming out of small windows and the candlesticks along its walls -few of which were actually lit. The air was stale, and carried a scent Byron couldn’t recognize. The room in which they were was round, and in the small light Byron could discern a pattern carved on the floor; a complex geometrical figure, no doubt magical or arcane in nature. The Cambion pointed at the only door out.

“The Archlady awaits,” they said.

Through the door was a hallway with no windows; Byron couldn’t see the other end. The Cambion, unhindered by the complete darkness there, took Byron by the hand and guided him through. The veteran followed as best he could, stumbling even as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He had quite a few questions, but had an inkling the Cambion wouldn’t answer any of them; even if they knew something, they were probably instructed to keep quiet. And anyway, he would get his answers straight from the horse’s mouth soon… Hopefully. 

The place seemed to have an aversion to windows, and also to any form of lighting. At first, Byron tried to create a mental map of the place, in case he needed to find his way back to the first room, but he soon gave up. In addition to being too dark, the place was like a maze, with numerous twists and turns. The thought occurred to Byron that he was deliberately being guided in such a manner that he couldn’t keep track.

Eventually, he arrived at a room, just as dark as the others before but apparently considerably larger, where he was made to wait. The Cambion whisked away in the darkness, the light sound of his footsteps soon vanishing. Alone in the dark, Byron tried to rely on his ears to get a feel of the place. He loudly cleared his throat, and, from the way the sound bounced back, deduced that the room he was in was indeed quite large, its roof elevated. Oddly warm, too, as if an invisible and inaudible fire was roaring somewhere.

Byron couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone here. Having been trained to distinguish between intuition and simple fear reactions, he strongly believed this was the former.

Moments passed, then, all of a sudden, lights began to appear: small flames, spread apart in a half-circle, dotting a wall in front of him, encased in lanterns of clear glass. Large bookshelves covered that wall from top to bottom, perhaps twelve feet high. The flames slowly grew bigger, and soon half of the room became visible, leaving the other half in darkness. Byron could now clearly see the floor, with several thick carpets, as well as a few pieces of furniture: a desk, a wardrobe, several placards… The room was in the shape of an elongated oval, with a dais on the lit side. At the center of the dais, elevated by two steps, was a throne, built out of some sort of black marble. And on the throne was a person, clad entirely in red clothing, made out of a material that evoked leather, or perhaps vinyl from the way it caught the light. A black mask obfuscated their face completely, while a dark red cowl covered the rest of the head. Complete with red gloves, not an inch of skin was visible. There was something feminine to the person, mostly in the way she was sitting with her legs together; her silhouette, however, evoked neither femininity nor masculinity. She was leaning to the side, her chin held up by one hand.

Byron immediately recognized the Archlady Azazel from the brief moment he had seen her in Atvello. It had lasted only a few seconds, but Byron had always had a good memory, and moreover that sight had left an impression on him. Indeed, one did not easily forget seeing an Archdemon, especially when in addition said Archdemon had seen him as well, when by all means she shouldn’t have. She stood up, and moved towards Byron.

“Welcome to the Occultatum, Lord Byron,” she said.

416 Views