The Pulver Chronicles – 41. Conspiracy Of One

The veteran and the Archmage observed each other in silence for a moment. From up close, Byron could see her mask was more than a simple theatrical accessory. Small red symbols were painted or adorned around the eye holes; they looked similar to some old Earth alphabet, Byron thought, perhaps cuneiform or Phoenician. Maybe it was just apophenia on his part, as upon closer inspection the differences were as many as the resemblances. The mask also included a small slit for the mouth, and two small holes around the nostrils.

In addition to the mask, she was wearing a long, red, hooded robe with large sleeves, which covered her whole body from her head to her ankles. Thin gloves and heeled boots, both of a darker red color, completed her outfit. The only part of her body Byron could see were her eyes. They were unlike anything Byron had ever seen. The irises were also red, but a red so dark it was hard to determine the limit between them and the black pupil.

The Archmage was of average height, perhaps five foot seven, and appeared underweight, though her large robe made it hard to tell with certainty. She had thin hands with long fingers, each of which appeared to end in either talons or long nails; Byron had felt them when he had shaken her hand.

The veteran had no idea what Azazel was: Human, Demon, Cambion, something else entirely? Outlandish guesses such as Hellhound or Goblin could be excluded, due to the aforementioned average size, but other than that, what was hiding under that mask was anyone’s guess.

“Am I to your satisfaction, Lord Byron?” she said.

Byron blinked, realizing he had been staring for a while now. Her voice, now that he heard it directly and not through some magic method of communication, still had an uncanny quality to it. It seemed to reverb, but maybe that was the room… No. As Byron thought more about it, it sounded like two voices were speaking at once when she talked, two voices so similar it was difficult to distinguish them with precision. Overall, her voice was feminine, but at times sounded more masculine, although it was difficult to explain how exactly. Does she deliberately make herself ambiguous, or is it part of her nature? Byron wondered.

“Forgive my curiosity,” he said. “It’s not everyday one meets an Archdemon.”

“You’re too kind. Would you like to drink something? The journey will have made you thirsty, no doubt.”

The veteran realized he was in fact quite a bit dehydrated, which didn’t help his nagging headache. Without any visible prompting from Azazel, a Cambion appeared, carrying a plate with a white ceramic pot and two cups. Byron noticed how they avoided looking at the flames directly; it seemed the lights made them uncomfortable. The plate was laid down on a small table near the throne, and the Cambion went away as silently as they had come. Azazel poured two cups, and gave one to Byron. He peered down at the amber-colored liquid in it, and noticed a few fragments of leaves.

“Is this tea?” Byron asked.

“Close enough,” she said. “It’s brewed stonecress. With a touch of eyelet milk to sweeten it.”

He took a sip. It was somewhat thicker than the tea he had gotten used to in his past life, and the taste was a touch fruitier. He let out a satisfied exhalation, then drank some more, finishing the cup in a few seconds.

“Feel free to have some more,” Azazel said.

“In a moment. I have a lot of questions first, if I may.”

“Yes, I imagine you would. Go ahead.”

“First of all: how did you bring me here? Was this some kind of teleportation?”

“I suppose you could call it that, yes,” the Archmage said.

“I’ve never heard of any kind of magic that can teleport people.”

“No, but you have seen it before, haven’t you, Lord Byron?” Azazel said, a light dancing in her eyes. “Better yet, you have experienced it.”

Byron frowned. “So you knew.”

“Oh yes. To someone with my abilities, you carry, let’s say, the unmistakable scent of someone out of this world. One glance at you and I knew.”

“No, no, you knew before I came here. Long before.”

Another Cambion appeared, bringing Byron a chair. Deciding to test a theory, Byron deliberately put himself in front of a flame, forcing the Cambion to look in its direction. The way they reacted indicated that his theory was correct: the Cambion, evidently used to the darkness, did not like to look directly at the light, even that of a fire.

“I did,” Azazel said. “You and Jackson tried to keep this fact from coming to light -and were wise to do so-, but I could see in the shadows.”

“Of course: that’s where your agents are the most powerful,” Byron said, sitting down and glancing at the Cambion. “Out of curiosity, are they all Cambions?”

She took a moment to respond.

“Many of them are,” she said, and Byron thought he heard a smile in her voice.

“Do other Archdemons also employ Cambions?”

“From the way you formulated that question, I think you have guessed they do not.”

“Yeah… I’m told Cambions are not welcome anywhere. Not in the Empire, not in the Hexacracy, not even the Southern Marches.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true,” the Archmage said. “Cambions are hated, owing to a deeply-held suspicion that they are the product of secret, forbidden magic.”

“Something tells me that magic is neither secret nor forbidden to you,” Byron said. “In fact, something tells me you know a lot about how they came to be. A lot more than anyone else in this world.”

“An interesting guess,” Azazel commented. “What leads you to believe that, Lord Byron? The fact that they are my agents?”

“That, and the fact that to my knowledge you are the only Archdemon to hide her face.”

“It seems you’re assuming a great deal, Lord Byron. But to answer your unspoken question: no, I am not myself a Cambion. One of their kind would never be welcomed among the Six, no matter how powerful they were.” She took her cup and sipped it, apparently unhindered by her mask. “Though you are correct in assuming I am privy to their true origins. In fact, you could say I hold an important role in their history.”

“You created them,” Byron said.

“Not I alone, and this was more accidental than intentional. But when one dabbles with the Secret Arcanes, there are many risks, especially when one tries to push back the limits of knowledge.”

“The Secret Arcanes,” Byron repeated.

“The Imperial Cult superstitiously refer to them as the Forbidden Arcanes, mostly because of the Inquisition’s desire to keep any and all knowledge of them under control. Under their control, that is.”

“So I gathered. So what were you trying to do, when you created the Cambion? Raise the dead?”

“Like that necromant you met in Vrittion? No.”

“Speaking of him, was he under your orders?”

“Not quite. The arcane knowledge he possessed came from my Occultatum, but his orders came from Elyonn. The Archcommander had this idea to send necromants and warlocks in the Southern Marches in preparation for the invasion. A terrible idea, I thought, not that my opinion mattered. I was pressured into giving them some spells to help them.” She blew some air through her nose. “I gave them just enough knowledge to attract the Inquisition’s attention.”

“Well, one of his spells killed me,” Byron said, trying to affect levity so as not to sound accusatory.

“I apologize for my part in that, then,” she said, bowing her head.

“You haven’t told me what you were trying to do when you created the Cambions.”

Byron wasn’t sure why he was so interested in that story. It probably had nothing to do with what the Archmage had summoned him here to discuss, and the information had little chance of being useful to him. So why? He didn’t know, save that his instinct told him it was important, and he had long since learned to trust his instincts. And anyway, more information on an enemy -even a friendly enemy- was never a bad thing.

He tried to ask another question on that topic, but his voice immediately twisted into a wheeze, followed by a strangled cough. He held on to his chest, feeling a constriction in his lungs. In addition, his hands were losing their strength, and he sensed a strange coldness through all of his body.

“We should resume this conversation after I’ve lifted your curse,” Azazel said, putting down her cup.

Four Cambions came into the room, two by two, once again without any visible sign or audible call from the Archmage. The first pair were carrying a large basin made out of stone or marble. The others were dragging a man, a male Demon, his hands tied in front of him by a length of thick rope, and his mouth gagged by a piece of cloth. As soon as he saw Azazel, he began shouting muffled curses and tried to shake off the Cambions holding him, to no avail. Byron considered the prisoner, arms crossed over his chest.

“Your sacrifice, I presume,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Was he picked at random or did he wrong you somehow?”

“Would it make you feel more at ease to learn that he is a raper or a murderer?” Azazel said. “Well, suffice to say, no one would regret this… man, were I to simply kill him.”

As she said that, she pulled out a small curved knife from seemingly nowhere. Byron had not noticed any pockets on her outfit. The basin was placed before the dais, and the man held against it, his bust over its edge. He kept trying to fight off the Cambions, struggling with desperate energy as Azazel approached him, her blade raised. At some point, he almost managed to free himself, but then the Archmage tapped her index and middle fingers on his forehead, and he suddenly dropped, as if all of his muscles had ceased functioning. His eyes remained opened, however, and Byron could see them moving as the Cambions placed him back over the edge of the basin.

“If you’re not actually going to kill him,” Byron asked, “what are you going to do ?”

“There is power in blood, and in souls,” Azazel said, rolling up the prisoner’s sleeves. “Quite a lot of it. The necromant you killed, much like that priest that cursed you, thought that the best way to make use of it is to simply kill the body that houses it. It is certainly the fastest way to harvest it, but not the most efficient.”

With a slow and deliberate move, Azazel ran the edge of the blade along the man’s right forearm, drawing a red line over his radial artery. She cut from the wrist all the way to the cubital fossa. Then, she cut again, this time the ulnar artery. Blood dripped out of the man and into the basin. His eyes opened, then grew wide, the pupils shrinking into small, black beads. The Archmage went to draw two identical lines on the other arm. The cuts were not deep, but made just at the right spots to ensure a slow but continuous flow.

“A slow death,” Byron muttered. “That’s the most efficient way?”

“No death at all, I assure you,” Azazel said. “The man will walk out of here alive as soon as we are done.”

She wiped her knife on the man’s -clothed- back, then put it away. Then, she held out her hand over the pool of blood, which continued to grow with every drop, and took a deep breath. No incantations or litany was pronounced, but soon, Byron saw movement in the pool. The blood began flowing clockwise, as if moved by some invisible ladle. The flow turned into an outward spiral, its edges raising. And raising. And raising.

Soon, the blood reached the edges of the basin, forming a red circle. Byron noticed then that the bottom of the basin was becoming darker, as if light could no longer reach it. Eventually, it disappeared entirely, leaving a large black void, circled by the blood, like a round, red window into a dark pit. Then, unbelievably, strange sights appeared in the darkness. Small, shimmering beads of light, against a black background. They too began swirling around, slowly, lazily. Byron glanced at the man; his eyes were still wide open, but the fear was gone, leaving them vacant.

“Come closer, please,” Azazel told Byron.

He did so, with due apprehension. Azazel put one of her gloved hands on his chest, the other still hovering over the basin. A shimmer emanated from the circle, looking like heat in summer. It flew upwards, then, as Azazel moved her hand, its course changed. The shimmer did a few turns and circles in the air, an invisible serpent coiling on itself.

“I don’t think you can see it,” the Archmage said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Not truly. This is magical power in its purest, rawest form.”

Then, without warning, the shimmer flew straight at Byron, striking him in the chest with such force that the veteran was certain it had pierced him right through. Instinctively, he looked down, but saw that he was still the same. Wait… No, not the same. The chest he was looking down on was not Jackson’s. Neither were the hands.

He heard a noise; something heavy dropping to the floor behind him. Turning on his heels, he saw Jackson Pulver laying down, eyes closed, mouth slightly opened. Byron got down on one knee, his fingers reaching to the young man’s neck. Before he could find a pulse, Jackson gasped loudly, like he was trying to swallow all the air in the room.

“Liz!” he yelled. “We…”

Jackson blinked, and looked around him with total confusion.

“Welcome back,” Byron said, the corners of his lips stretching up. “Is he alright?” he asked Azazel.

“He will be,” she said. Just as Byron had predicted, she had no difficulty seeing or hearing him, even in his disembodied form.

“What the hell happened?” Jackson said, bewildered. “Is the battle over? Did we win?”

“We won the battle, yes, but one of the priests cursed you.”

Jackson sat up, holding his forehead. “Ah, hell, I remember that. Asshole tossed one of the prisoners in the fire for this. Can’t remember what happened after. Did I black out? Did the curse send me into a coma or something?”

“The curse hindered your soul,” Azazel said. “Had the priest lived long enough to finish his spell, no doubt he would have tried to kill you to collect it. As it were, it would still have been enough to destroy you, albeit slowly.”

“Who are…” Jackson’s eyebrows jumped up, then lowered into a frown. “Azazel.”

“A pleasure to meet you in turn, Jackson Pulver.”

“Huh-uh, yeah, I’d imagine it’s a pleasure, after watching me for so long.” He sniffed, then stood up, his legs wobbling, and looked around him. “Where are we?”

Byron proceeded to sum up the events of the last few days for him. Meanwhile, the Archmage reported her attention to the prisoner, and released him from his bindings. The man’s eyes were still vacant, his gaze unfocused, his jaw slack, and there was now some strange apathy to his posture. The cuts on his arms had completely healed, not even leaving scars. He kept standing there, without moving or saying anything, as if he had lost all agency. He didn’t even seem to notice there were people around him. Two of the Cambions went to lead him out; he let them, more docile than a pet.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jackson asked, fearing the answer.

“As I promised, he is allowed to walk out alive.”

The man continued to look at nothing as he headed out. He didn’t even seem to blink.

“For a given value of “alive”,” Byron said. “You removed his soul, haven’t you?”

“Not completely. I only took what little I needed for my ritual. In time, his soul will heal, and he will recover, with perhaps a few scars. He’ll not even remember what happened here, save perhaps for some nightmares.”

“Jesus,” Jackson muttered. 

“That ritual…” Byron said. “You opened a portal, didn’t you?”

“Your intuition is on point, Lord Byron. Normally, to remove your curse, I would have required an entire soul, and thus to kill that man, just as the death of a person was required to cast the curse in the first place. Like for like, such is the rule in magic. However, I have found in my research that there are sometimes ways to circumvent the rules.”

Two Cambions took the basin away. The Archmage stepped aside to let them pass.

“If an entire soul would have been necessary to break the curse, a portion of a soul was sufficient to open this small portal. I opened it to another world, one I know to contain nothing but pure, raw magical energy. Then, it was a simple matter of letting just enough energy through to serve my needs.”

“Wait, you can open portals?” Jackson said. “Like, to travel to other worlds?”

“Yes and no,” the Archmage said. “I know how to open portals, but accessing other worlds is not so easily done. In fact, it is by far one of the most complex rituals, and the consequences of failure -sometimes even of success- can be dire and far-reaching. What you saw was a mere slit, small and very short-lived. A window to another world, rather than an actual door. Transferring energy is rather simple. But transferring matter, or better yet people, is another problem entirely.”

“That necromant managed just fine,” Jackson said.

“I wouldn’t call his clumsy, stumbling attempts “fine”. He little knew what he was doing, trying as he was to ape my methods by opening multiple portals from which to draw magical power. What he ended up creating was a mess he couldn’t control, and for which he had to pointlessly sacrifice many souls. It is thankful most of his portals weren’t viable, and that, from what I gathered, most of the worlds he reached contained no life. Living creatures might not have reached our world alive, or intact. You and the rest of your people had luck on your side, thankfully.”

“Wouldn’t call that luck,” he muttered. “At least, the rest of my unit wouldn’t.”

Azazel went back to sit on her throne, and poured herself another cup of brewed stonecress. She offered Jackson the available seat; he took it, his legs still a little weak.

“That weakness will pass,” Azazel said. “Your soul too shall recover. Now, where were we?”

“You were about to tell us how you created the Cambions,” Byron said.

“Ah, yes. That experiment had a different purpose entirely. What I originally aimed to do was open a door to another world.”

“Again with the portals. Why did you want to open this one? Scientific curiosity?”

“Curiosity was part of it, certainly. Who wouldn’t be curious to discover more of the many worlds that await beyond the veil? But as to the main reason… Well, it is a long story, one I’ll not tell today. Suffice to say, the true motive was more personal. As I said, transferring energy is not particularly difficult. Or rather, it is complex, but the risks should anything go wrong are moderate, and can easily be controlled, at least if the magi knows what they are doing. Not so when it comes to the transfer of persons. There is a reason, other than control, why the Inquisition censors all knowledge related to other worlds, and bans all related magic. The First Forbidden Arcane, they call it, deeming it worse than even necromancy. It pains me to admit it, but in several ways they are not wrong. Still, I wished to make the attempt. I… had to make the attempt.”

“I’m going to take a guess here,” Byron sighed. “You didn’t want to make that particular experiment yourself, so you sent someone else through the portal you created.”

“Portals, as it were,” Azazel replied. “You are correct. I am not proud, but as I said it was dangerous. So I found volunteers, people who knew the risks but were still motivated by the idea of discovering new worlds, of pushing back the boundaries of knowledge.”

Her chin dipped a couple of inches, and her voice lowered. “To this day, I am not completely sure what went wrong. At first, everything seemed to be going well. The rituals had been followed properly, though they were experimental. The portals had been created just as the ones I had made before; they were stable, or appeared to be at least. But when my people stepped through the gates to other worlds, things took a very sudden turn for the worse. I will spare you the details. Some of the would-be travelers disappeared without trace. Some died in terrible ways. Most, thankfully, came back… but were never the same again.

“Through arcane ways even I do not fully understand, their flesh, their minds, and their souls had been turned, changed, remade. Where there were once Humans and Demons now stood a very different kind altogether, one never seen before in this world. Dark creatures with red eyes, dark skin, and four horns each capable of independent movement; most strangely of all, they now all had the Talent, even though I had made sure to recruit both magis and bejans for the experiment. And a very unusual Talent it was, permitting them to make use of the shadows -such a power is quite uncommon, even among learned magis.”

“How did you know they were the same people?” Byron asked. “Couldn’t they have been travelers from other worlds impersonating the missing?”

“The thought occurred to me, but I easily verified that such wasn’t the case. There are… Ah… It is difficult to explain to a bejan, but there are ways a magi can use to perceive the… shall we say, the tinge of a particular soul. No, the creatures before me were indeed the people I had recruited for my experiment. Changed, but the same.

“I found them… beautiful. And fascinating. Sadly, it soon appeared I was the only one to hold that opinion. People out there, bejans and magis alike, came to fear them, to hate them. They decided that these were the Cambions from the old tales, those mythical creatures allegedly the progeny of Human and Demon. It was true they bore some unfortunate resemblance to those creatures. Many societies ostracized them, banned them; some took to killing them. They found refuge in my Occultatum, away from a world that did not want them.”

“And in turn, they became your agents,” Byron said. “Spies capable of hiding in every shadow, their loyalty assured by the fact that you are their only sanctuary. You certainly made the best of their bad situation.”

“You think me manipulative, Lord Byron; I cannot blame you. One does not become an Archdemon through virtues and moral principles. But the status of Archdemon involves both power and danger. The other Archdemons often ogle on my fief, or on the wealth of knowledge contained in my Occultatum. Quite a few magis, some of whom are under my tutelage, also covet my title. Intelligence is my best weapon against them.”

“Aren’t Archdemons supposed to be on the same side?” Jackson said. “What with the Hexacracy and the war and all.”

“The Hexacracy mostly means we are not openly at each other’s throats. But we are still people of power, always seeking to acquire more -or to prevent others from doing so.”

“You included?”

“The power I seek is not political, economical, or even religious. Still, I am part of the other Archdemons’ power games, and my only choice is to play or be played. And thus, I use my Cambions.”

“Not just for that,” Byron said. “You used one to spy on us, didn’t you?”

“Wait, you’re saying…” Jackson said. “Ah, Hell. Jowallan was your spy?!”

The Archmage sighed wistfully. “Ah, Jowallan. One of my most trusted agents. I was saddened to hear of their passing.”

“Wasn’t it one of your agents that killed them? Raz, or whatever his name was?”

“They were… until one of my enemies got ahold of them. I can only imagine what they did to Raz.”

“They put them in a cage with a Starklight,” Byron said. “Raz looked like they had been there for days when we got them out.”

Azazel shook her head. “I see. A crude but efficient way to deprive him of any shadow, of any opportunity to recuperate. Little wonder their captors managed to break them to the point where they attacked their own kind.”

“They attacked me too,” Jackson said.

“Yes, and I am sorry for that.”

“Why did you try to kidnap me? You were in town, why not just send me an invite?” he snarked.

“You misunderstand, sir Jackson: I had no such intention toward you. Raz’s main task was to observe the Gilded council. Raz knew of you, so that in case anything happened to Jowallan, they could take their place as your protector. But other than that, they were supposed to keep away. Their orders to take you, I’m afraid, came from someone else -their torturers, evidently. But it is indirectly my fault: my interest in you is what caused your kidnappers to take an interest as well. For this, I apologize.”

Jackson made a “hmph”, and took a few sips of the brewed stonecress; he found it bland to the taste, but drank anyway out of thirst.

“That was Rakshasa, wasn’t it? We found out that’s who Otzando was working for,” Jackson said. “He’s the guy who captured your Cambion and put him in a cage.”

“I think she already knew that,” the veteran told him.

The Archlady Azazel joined her hands in a triangle under her chin, her mask obfuscating any reaction she might have had. After a brief moment of silence, she said:

“Yes, I knew it was her, and I knew about her agent. The Archcourtesan, it seems, has developed something of an obsession for me and my activities. Knowledge is one of the cruxes of her power as well, you see. But when it comes to me, she knows quite little. And that upsets her. When she found out about you, and about my interest in you, she decided she had to discover more.”

“Yeah, I’d like to discover more too,” Jackson said. “I’m real flattered by this “interest” and all” he air-quoted the word “but why keep tabs on me?”

To his surprise, Byron answered that question: “So she could manipulate you. Well, us, I suppose.”

“Manipulate you, Lord Byron?” Azazel said.

“Now who’s acting the fool?” the veteran said. “It was through your actions that Jackson found Alizana and the Hellhounds. You sent him that strange dream, telling him to “find her”, creating that obsession in him. Or rather, Jowallan sent him that dream, I would guess, but on your orders. I bet you even procured Nechido’s ring for him. And those letters you brought with you when you visited Atvello, conveniently mentioning that Alizana was located in the Vertrisian Forest… At the time, I thought it was strange that they weren’t encoded in some way, or even protected by some kind of magic.

“You wanted him to know about Alizana. You wanted him to go after her. I think you even wanted him to join her Rebellion.”

Stunned, Jackson looked alternatively at his friend and at the Archlady. Was Byron right? Was Azazel the one behind all of this, pulling his strings to make it all happen? It made sense; in fact, Jackson felt a little miffed that Byron had pieced all that together before he did. Azazel’s body language betrayed no visible emotion, yet Jackson sensed some kind of amusement about her. He was certain he could hear her smile in her voice as she spoke again:

“It has been a while since I enjoyed a conversation with such an inquisitive mind. Then again, I don’t meet many people, and most of them do not speak freely around me.”

“So it’s true?” Jackson said. “You were manipulating me the whole time?”

“I wouldn’t qualify what I did as manipulative…”

Course you wouldn’t, the young man grumpily thought.

“… But it is true that I did influence you, pushed you towards a certain path. The choice to take it, however, was yours.”

“Yeah, maybe. But why did you want me to do that? Why did you want me to join the Rebellion?”

“Because the war was coming, and the Hellhounds would need your help. Jowallan had described you as a competent warrior; they sensed both the energy of youth and the experience of age in you. Combined with your otherworldly weapons, I thought you could give the Rebellion an edge. I must admit, you performed beyond my expectations.”

“Hold on. How did you know about my weapons?”

“I confess, I had Jowallan go through your possessions. They found them.”

“Should have known,” Jackson muttered. “But that’s just one. How did you know I had more?”

“An educated guess. From what my agents told me, you did not arrive in this world alone, and your companions left quite a mark on the undead in Vrittion.”

Jackson and Byron traded a glance. Something told the young man there was more to it than mere guesswork, and evidently the veteran agreed. The Archmage was unlikely to give up her secrets, however, and ultimately it didn’t matter at this point: she already knew about the firearms. Anyway, there was another matter that concerned Jackson:

“Okay, but that doesn’t make sense. Why would you want to help the Rebellion? Last I checked, they’re your enemy.”

Azazel leaned back. “They are the Hexacracy’s enemy. As for me, things are more complex.”

“How so?” Byron asked.

“This war… I did not want it.” She took a deep breath. “I thought it was a bad idea from the start. But Elyonn willed it, and in the Hexacracy his will is law. My reservations were rebuked or simply ignored.”

“You’re concerned the Hexacracy will not gain the Southern Marches?” Byron said. “Or that they won’t be able to keep it?”

“The Southern Marches were never Elyonn’s true objective. It was always but the first step of his plan. His real enemy is the Eastern Empire. He wishes to conquer it and destroy it. “Wishes” is not the right verb: that man is convinced this will happen no matter what. It is fated to be, so he believes. He will kill the Emperor, the Empire will fall, and the Imperial Cult will follow it to the grave. It is his destiny as the Armilus.”

“That’s… certainly ambitious.”

“It is folly,” Azazel said. “The Eastern Empire will not die in a single war. Quite a few Archdemons have tried in the past; their greatest result was the independence of the Southern Marches. Elyonn will do no better, but he could very well do a lot worse. Sadly, this is a folly he truly believes in, as do many in the Hexacracy. And doom to any naysayers; were it not for my title, I might have suffered for my doubts.”

“Ah. So you think this war will backfire against the Hexacracy,” Byron said.

“Yes. Conquering the Southern Marches is one thing; that, we might have achieved. But Elyonn wants to go too far, and too quickly. Worse yet, his single-minded obsession means he will not yield, no matter what. From the moment he decided the war, I knew he would see it through at any cost. And I was right: the tide of the war is turning, but he does not reconsider. The death of an Archdemon did not so much as make him pause.”

“Make that two Archdemons,” Byron said. “Yerleg has been killed in the last battle.”

“Indeed. Elyonn will not take this well: Yerleg was his most devout supporter, and his staunchest support among the Six.”

“Guess I’m going to make Elyonn’s shitlist,” Jackson said with a smile.

“You already have,” Azazel said. “The Archcommander offers ten thousand nials from his own coffers for your head, and an additional five thousand if you are delivered alive.”

The young man chuckled. “Fifteen thousand? Not bad.”

“Going back to the subject,” Byron said, “that doesn’t explain why you pushed us to join the Rebellion. You wanted to ensure the Hexacracy’s defeat?”

“In a way, I did. Rather, I wished to ensure the Hexacracy would lose in a certain way. The defeat at Atvello and the death of Namtar have already helped convince the Archdemons to be more cautious in their approach to the war, and to not commit in full to Elyonn’s strategy.”

A mirthless smirk appeared on Byron’s lips. “I see. You’re using us to undermine Elyonn among the Six. Interesting power play.”

“Unfortunately, the nature of Hexacrat politics is such that power plays are inevitable in order to achieve anything -or sometimes even to remain in place. I have no powerful armies nor considerable wealth. This is my only way to stop Elyonn from losing this war and destroying the Hexacracy, or worse.”

“Worse?” Jackson said.

“From succeeding in his plan.”

Jackson scratched the tip of his nose with the nail of his thumb. He thought back of the scenes of destruction he had witnessed in the Marches’ countryside, and of the prisoners from the battle of the Broken Teeth, stolen from their homes and killed horribly by the warrior-monks. The idea that this war might be extended to the Empire was indeed a cause for concern. Byron didn’t look particularly impressed by the argument, however. Jackson could easily tell by his expression, and by the way he crossed his arms.

“Right. Your motives are entirely selfless, then,” the veteran said.

“My motives are entirely selfish, actually,” Azazel said. “I aim to protect my power and my status as Archmage. I risk losing both if Elyonn manages to cause the Hexacracy’s destruction. You can easily imagine what will happen to my Occultatum and my people if the Empire wins and the Inquisition is given free rein over my territory. And should he succeed in destroying the Empire -which, I’ll grant you, was always quite unlikely-, I don’t suppose he will have much need of me anymore. And given that he already dislikes and distrusts me…”

This, Byron seemed more inclined to believe. He uncrossed his arms, and went to study the numerous books covering the walls behind the throne. Jackson tried the brewed stonecress again, deciding it was better than being thirsty.

“Here’s another question,” Byron said, looking at the Archmage over his shoulder. “How are you so familiar with our world?”

Azazel shot him what Jackson assumed to be a surprised look, though there was really no way to tell.

“You keep calling me Lord Byron,” the veteran said. “Could you make it any more obvious?”

A strange sound came from beneath her mask. Was the Archmage… chuckling?

“Hah. Yes, I do have some knowledge of the world you came from. In fact, you could say I cultivate a certain interest in it.”

“I knew it. That quote you sent Jackson in that dream, along with the ring… “Turn on the dark, I’m afraid of the light”… That’s a quote from a poem of our world. Silverstein, I think.”

“Quite right, Lord Byron, quite right. Oh, and if you’re looking for your namesake in my library, I’m afraid I must disappoint you: all of these books are exclusively from my world.”

“But how could you have known what world we were from, back then?” Byron asked. “Jackson only told Jowallan after all that business with the ring.”

“He had told someone else before,” Azazel simply said.

Both the veteran and the Archmage looked at Jackson, who recoiled a little.

“What? I didn’t tell anyone,” he said, defensive. “I- Wait… Oh, err, I kinda told that scout girl, Tacy.” He scratched the back of his neck. “But, um, she worked for the Inquisition.”

“Not just for the Inquisition, it seems,” Byron sighed.

Guess the quiet ones make the best spies, Jackson thought, trying to drown his embarrassment with another gulp of stonecress. His lips curled down as he swallowed.

“Hold on a minute,” Byron said, his face darkening. “The House of the Living Flame.”

“What about it?” Jackson said.

“The Atashka… They’re your agents too, aren’t they?” he asked Azazel.

“Another interesting assumption. What makes you think that?” the Archmage replied.

“First of all, I don’t buy your “educated guess” answer about the firearms. You don’t strike me as the sort of person that acts on simple hunches. You knew about them. And while Jackson wasn’t stupid enough to tell anyone about them-”

“Thanks?” Jackson said.

“-he did entrust several of them to the House of the Living Flame. On top of that, Tezrian was a member of that House, and she is your agent.” He pointed a finger in her direction.

Azazel joined her hands before her, elbows resting on the arms of her throne. Once again, she took a moment before answering.

“I’m afraid that’s not quite right. For one thing, Tezrian isn’t my agent.”

“Are you going to deny using her?”

“I wouldn’t insult your intelligence by lying about that. Yes, I used her in order to contact you directly. But as to the rest, I merely influenced her, much in the way I influenced sir Jackson.”

“You say ‘tomato’, “we say ‘use’,” Jackson said. “You used her. You gave her all these visions to lead her to join the Rebellion so you could have an agent there.”

“You truly wish to paint me as a manipulative mastermind, sir Jackson.”

“The bill fits,” Byron said. “And what about the House of the Living Flame? A congregation of magis using strange powers in the secrecy of the shadows… That’s your M.O., isn’t it?”

“Once again, the priests and priestesses of the House of the Living flame are not my agents. Not all of them. A few of them, I’ll admit, have received their magical education in my Occultatum, and have chosen to remain loyal to me afterwards.”

“I’ll bet. The ones in charge, probably. As to the rest, they have no idea who it is they’re truly working for. Makes it harder to trace the whole thing back to you.”

Azazel didn’t answer, but turned her head towards one of the doors. Seconds later, a Cambion appeared to take away the cups and the now empty pot. After a few seconds of silence, it became clear the Archmage would not confirm or deny Byron’s hypothesis; from the veteran’s expression, however, it seemed he didn’t need any confirmation.

“Have you been to our world?” Jackson asked Azazel. “Sounds like you know a lot about it.”

“No. As I explained, traveling to other worlds is no simple feat. Especially if you plan on returning -and intact, as well. This” she gestured to her surroundings “is the only world I’ve ever traveled. But I’ve had… glances into your world.”

“And you focused these glances on literature?” Byron said. “I suppose I can respect that. But why these glances? Was it simple curiosity?”

Azazel took her time to answer that question. When she did, her voice was somehow different. Distant, and a little melancholy.

“As I said, the reason is personal. You’ll understand I would rather not discuss it.”

“All right, fine,” Byron said, as he went to stand beside Jackson. “You haven’t brought us here to discuss your personal life anyway. Or literature. Is now a good time to tell us what it is you did want to talk about? I presume it has to do with the war.”

“It does,” the Archmage said.

“Do you want to discuss peace terms or something?” Jackson asked.

“Ah, peace.” Azazel laughed briefly and without humor. “I’m afraid I am currently in no position to negotiate that. It is too early anyway. It has gotten to the point where some of my peers have doubts regarding our chances of victory, but not to the point where they openly discuss these doubts.”

“Yet you know about them anyway,” Byron pointed out.

“As I said, intelligence is my weapon. No, I didn’t invite you here to negotiate peace. But I do wish to discuss how to end this war.”

“From what you said, it looks like it’s gonna take killing Elyonn,” Jackson said. “Let me guess, you’re not gonna to do the deed yourself?”

“I’m afraid that would be beyond my capabilities. Elyonn is reckless and overconfident, but he is not completely stupid. And anyway it’ll do me no good to be branded a traitor by my peers.”

“Right. Well, good thing you have us, huh?” he snarked. “But if we could kill that prick, don’t you think we’d have done that a long time ago? Unless you’ve got some kind of secret plan that could give us the opportunity to do just that…”

“The opportunity will come,” Azazel said calmly.

“You sound confident of that,” Byron said.

“It is war, and Elyonn likes to take part in his armies’ battles. Opportunities will necessarily arise.”

The veteran scoffed, not even bothering to sound like he believed that answer. Jackson didn’t believe it either: Azazel sounded too confident; clearly, she knew something.

“I’m guessing a guy like him doesn’t go anywhere without a praetorian guard and a few magis to keep him safe,” Jackson said. “Even if we meet him in battle, he won’t be an easy target.”

“He rarely ever goes anywhere without his Legionnaires by his side, but he doesn’t trust magis around him. Anyway, he has enough magical power and knowledge to ensure his own protection.”

“So did Yerleg,” Byron pointed out. “He died all the same.”

“Indeed. But Elyonn is not cut from the same cloth. In addition to his skill in battle, his Talent has made him strong beyond the natural limits of his kind. And fast, as well.”

“Fast enough to dodge bullets?” Jackson asked.

“He will not need to; he knows magical ways to shield himself from such threats, even though he likely doesn’t even know what a bullet is.”

Jackson was reminded of how the necromant had managed to block his bullets mid-air. From what the Azazel said of his prowess in battle, firearms might well be his only way of getting an edge over the Archcommander. If even those didn’t work…

“Well, you’re an Archmage. Don’t you know any way to… I don’t know, magic away his magic?”

“If I were to face him on the battlefield, most likely. But I will do no such thing.”

“Course not.” Jackson shook his head. “Let us take all the risk, why don’t you?”

“I am willing to help you; your presence here is proof of that. And as to the risk, I am already taking quite a few, though it may not seem that way to you. I am not playing the same game you are, sir Jackson, and thus must abide by different rules.”

“Fine, fine. So, how can you help us with the Archcommander? You gonna give me some magical powers?”

Once curious as to whether he had what the people of this world called the Talent, Jackson had eventually resigned to the high probability that he didn’t. None of the magis he had interacted with had mentioned anything, and yet many of them seemed able to recognize a fellow arcane user. It was a safe bet he was no more capable of magic than a mute person was of singing the opera. But perhaps an Archmage would have ways to change that…

“What few Arcanes I could teach you would take months, maybe years to learn, and would require outside sources of magic. Even then, these Arcanes would be of little use against the Archcommander. You might as well try to stop a forest fire by spitting on it. What I can do however…”

Jackson felt something move on his belt. One of the pouches opened, as if maneuvered by invisible hands, and his pistol, stored in it, flew up between him and the Archmage, muzzle pointing up. Then, she held out her hand, while her knife reappeared in the other. She pulled up her sleeve, just enough to reveal just an inch of her skin. Jackson tried to get a good look at it; in the low lighting, that skin looked as black as jet, and peppered with a few strange spots the color of snow. Is she sick? he wondered. Is that why she covers herself from head to toe?

Her knife cut quickly into the skin of her wrist, and a dark liquid went to cover the blade. Jackson wasn’t sure whether to call it blood: the color was too dark, and the texture seemed too thick and slimy. Azazel waited until she collected enough of it on her knife, then placed her sleeve back, not bothering with healing her wound -unless perhaps she had already done so in the blink of an eye. Then, she dipped two gloved fingers in the liquid substance, and used it to paint small sigils on the side of the pistol.

“… is give you an edge,” Azazel finished her sentence.

She completed her painting, then the gun moved closer to Jackson, who grabbed it after some hesitation. The blood had dried up quickly, and the sigils it painted were barely visible over the pistol’s dark metal parts. Maybe it was psychological, but Jackson thought the gun’s grip was unusually cold; his palm felt antsy around it, as well. Slowly, he put it back in his pouch.

“So what did you do to it?” he asked.

“I imbued it with a bit of my power. Just enough to allow you to pierce through the Archcommander’s protection. It will not last long, so use it wisely.”

The knife had disappeared from her hand again. Jackson heard Byron wondering if it was actual magic or simply sleight of hand.

“What do you demand in exchange for this?” the veteran asked.

“Nothing,” Azazel said, sitting back in her throne.

“Yeah, right,” Jackson said. “No such thing as a free meal.”

“If I truly expected this to be a transaction, wouldn’t I have negotiated the details before proceeding?”

Neither Jackson nor Byron found anything to answer to that. Azazel went on:

“As I have made clear, this is in both of our interests. I would not presume to make you pay for something that will already benefit me.”

“All right, all right, I believe you,” Jackson said. “Is that all you wanted from this meeting then? To heal me and make sure I’d have a chance to take down Elyonn?”

“Not quite. There is another thing we must discuss.”

Well, let’s make it quick, then, Jackson thought, slouching a little in his chair. I really can’t wait to be out of this place. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was about the Occultatum that made him uneasy. The low lighting was certainly part of it, as was the strange smell in the air. Or rather: the strange lack of smell. There were lit candles around them, yet Jackson could not pick up the scent of burning, or of melting wax; the numerous old books didn’t seem to have any smell to them either. And then, there was the fact that the place looked and sounded completely empty. Aside from him, Byron, and the Archmage, it was like they were completely alone in the building. He couldn’t hear a single word or footstep that could indicate the presence of anyone else, even though he knew there were at least a few Cambions around.

In addition, the stone walls and the obscurity of the rest of the room reminded him of that strange dream where he received the ring. Which… made sense, now that he thought about it.

“Before all, I must ask you one question,” the Archmage said. “What do you want out of this war?”

“Well, we want to win, my Archlady,” Jackson answered with the same brand of polite snark he had honed back in his US army days -the very same brand that got him to do more push-ups than the rest of his unit combined.

“Indubitably, but what do you consider winning? Will you consider yourselves victorious if the Hexacracy withdraws from the Southern Marches?”

“It will certainly be a huge step toward victory,” Byron said. “I take it you are about to ask what our plans are concerning the Eastern Empire.”

“Their intentions concerning the Southern Marches are well-known. What are yours?”

“We want to be free,” Jackson said. “No conquest, no vassalage, we want to be independent. That means no Hexacracy, and no Empire.”

“Independence.” Azazel nodded. “For every March in the South?”

“Maybe not every March, but at least those who want to join our Alliance.”

“Before you ask,” Byron said, “yes, we realize that our goals do not align with the Empire’s. But the war is far from over.”

“So what is your strategy then? Are you hoping that the conflict will last long enough that the Empire will give up on taking the Southern Marches?”

“Our strategy is our concern,” the veteran replied, cold but still polite.

“Why do you care anyway?” Jackson asked. “You want to help us with the negotiations? Or “give us an edge” with the Emperor too?” His fingers drew air-quotes.

“Even if it were my intention, I’m afraid this is not within my power,” Azazel said. “No, what I want is to offer you an alternative.”

“An alternative?” Jackson said.

“Imagine your plans fall through. Imagine the Emperor will not be convinced to abandon his claim over the Southern Marches. Imagine you cannot present a united front against his Empire. What will your strategy be then? War with the Empire?”

“If it comes to that,” Jackson said with a shrug. “We held our own against the Hexacracy, and their troops number more than the Empire.”

“But you didn’t face most of these troops. You held your own, as you say, because the Hexacracy was busy on two fronts. If the Hexacracy is out of the conflict, you will have to face the Empire alone. Do you believe you can do that?”

“Again, that is our concern,” Byron said. “And it’s not an immediate one.”

“But it is a concern. Going to war with an enemy that outnumbers you nearly ten to one, has stronger logistics, and can continue to raise more troops is quite a gamble. Imagine you lose.”

“That’s a lot of imagining we got going on,” Jackson said. Azazel ignored him.

“You lose the war, you lose the Southern Marches. Then what happens to your people? What happens to the Hellhounds?”

Jackson glanced at Byron.

“They’ll no doubt be exiled from the South unless they bend the knee to the Empire,” Azazel continued. “And even then, it isn’t certain they’ll be accepted. And after being exiled, where will you go ? The C’fan Leagues are not likely to want them either, even if you somehow find enough ships to cross the sea. The maliks further south might be more welcoming; your warriors would make good mercenaries. Of course, this welcome might only last as long as your usefulness.”

“All right, all right,” Byron said. “We get your point: this world does not have any room for us outside the Southern Marches. So what is your alternative?”

“Well, it is as you said: this world does not have any room for you.”

She let those words linger in the air. Jackson clued in a second later.

“Wait, you want to send us to another world? You said you couldn’t do that!”

“No, I said it was difficult. But with sufficient means and preparation, it can be done. In fact, in this particular case, it will be made easier by one factor.”

“And what is that?”

“I know which world I’ll be sending them to; in addition, one of these people is connected to that world.”

Jackson recoiled, his back slamming against the back of his chair. “Wait, you mean my world? You want to send me back to Earth?”

“That’s right,” Azazel said.

“No. Fuck no!” he jumped out of his seat. “I ain’t going back there, not in a million years.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, sir Jackson. As I said, this is merely an alternative I’m proposing.”

“How is this an alternative, exactly?” Byron asked.

“Traveling to a new world would mean offering your people a fresh start. In that place, they would be free to begin again away from the Hexacracy or the Empire. They would have no past to burden them, and no ties to bind them.”

“They would also be alone in a strange world they know nothing about.”

“Not unlike they were when they migrated to the Southern Marches. But this time, they would have someone who already knows the land.”

“No, they wouldn’t, because I’m not going back there,” Jackson said. 

He felt a little like a petulant child, stamping his foot and refusing to do what he was told, but he didn’t care. This was his world, not Earth. It was here that he had made a life for himself, for the first time since he was born. On Earth, he had had nothing. He had been nothing. But here, he had found friends, he had found love, he had found adventure, he had even found a cause worth waking up in the morning and working for all day -Hell, a cause worth fighting for. In this world, he was Mad Jack, not just some stray nobody ever really wanted.

And now, he had to throw all of this away? No. Never.

“Forget about it,” he insisted. “It’s not an option.”

“I agree, actually,” Byron said. “This is more of a hail mary than a real solution. At any rate, it’s too early to consider it. The war with the Hexacracy is not over, and we have barely begun negotiating with the Empire.”

“Again, this is just an option I’m offering in case things do not turn out as well as you hope,” Azazel said.

“Uh-huh, and you’re offering it out of the kindness of your heart and deep concern for our people, I’m sure. Not because you’re covering your tracks.” 

The veteran gave another humorless smirk. Azazel didn’t react, other than to shake her head in apparent confusion.

“Come on, my Archlady, it’s pretty obvious,” Byron said. “You created the Hellhounds.”

“Wait, what?” Jackson said.

“Now that’s an interesting theory,” Azazel said. “Do go on.”

“I admit I don’t have much proof, but it makes sense now that I think about it. I can’t imagine that creating sentient creatures, let alone an entire race of them is an easy feat. Clearly, whoever made the Hellhounds is both knowledgeable and powerful in the way of the Arcanes. I’d say an Archmage fits that bill very well.”

“I thought Namtar created them,” Jackson said.

“From what we heard of him, Namtar wasn’t much of a magi. I think he had to outsource that one.”

“But in his letter at Baluq, he said…”

“How do we know he sent this letter?” Byron interrupted. “In fact, why would he? I found that odd, back then, but I didn’t have much time to really think about it. He moves his armies south, but instead of letting us guess at his destination, he sends us a letter to tell us?”

“I mean, there weren’t many towns allied with us back then. Tinaun was kind of an obvious guess anyway.”

“Obvious in hindsight, yes. But why would he confirm our suspicions? Why would he give us the opportunity to gather our forces in time to stop his armies before he could even make it to Tinaun? For crying out loud, he basically taunted us into meeting him in battle!”

“Well…” Jackson said. “What are you saying?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You sent that letter,” Byron said, pointing at Azazel.

“And why would I do that?” she said.

“So we would do your dirty work, of course. It’s not much of an assumption that he was the only one who could connect you to the Hellhounds. And, after the defeat at Atvello, that connection would have been a problem, if the other Archdemons were to learn about it. Namtar had to go, and what better way to do that than having him killed by his enemies?”

“Evidently, you both think me one particularly industrious spider, crafting complex webs everywhere,” Azazel said. “I am now guilty not only of conspiracy, but of murder to uphold that conspiracy.” A short snort escaped the opacity of her mask. “But let us suppose I did send that letter. Couldn’t my motivation have been offering the Hellhounds an opportunity for revenge against a man who once sought to enslave them? Or simply part of my greater objective to weaken Elyonn’s position?”

“One decision can have several motives,” Byron retorted. “And the altruistic motive is rarely the most important one.”

“Are you saying that your decision to help the Rebellion was not solely motivated by the desire to help them gain their freedom?”

The veteran scoffed, and didn’t answer.

“Look, did you write that letter or not?” Jackson said, growing annoyed.

“If you truly are confident that I did, what does my answer matter?”

He rolled his eyes. “Nevermind. Well, we’ve heard your proposal, and I suppose we’ll call it plan B. Or Z. Now…”

“Hold on a minute,” Byron said. “If you send us back to our world, what happens to me?”

Jackson was about to ask what he meant, but then it hit him. Byron’s current status -whatever it was- was the result of magic. What would happen if he were sent to a world devoid of magic? Jackson could only think of one way this would end, and it was not nice.

Azazel rose from her throne, and approached Byron, holding her chin in one hand.

“Ah, yes…” she said. “I had almost forgotten. Your situation is the result of one of the necromant’s spells, isn’t it?”

“Yes, he sacrificed one of our men to create some kind of dark tendrils, or something like that,” Byron said. “It killed me so fast I didn’t even realize I was dead… Until I happened upon my own body.”

“I’m sorry you had to experience that.” Jackson didn’t find much sorrow in her tone. It sounded more like she was examining Byron, like a scientist would observe a rare phenomena. “It appears the necromant has severed your soul from your body. No doubt he wished to collect it.”

“I got him before he could,” Jackson said. “He had some kind of medallion which I took and destroyed. He said he needed it to control that weird, big flame.”

“Hmm. The flame was no doubt his pool, in which he gathered the power he needed to raise his undeads. The medallion was his focus. The bigger the pool, the harder it is to control it.”

“Yeah, everything blew up after I destroyed that trinket. Guess that magic he was pooling went everywhere.”

“Precisely,” Azazel said. “Some of it affected you and your friend, tethering his soul to your body. In a way, you are lucky, Lord Byron. Were it not for this accident, or for Jackson’s presence nearby, you may well have been doomed to haunt that place forever, unable to be perceived by anyone or to interact with anything, for centuries until your soul disintegrated.”

A quiver ran up Jackson’s back as he imagined that.

“So what does that make me?” Byron said. “A ghost?”

“I suppose you could call it that, yes.”

“Is there a different word for this?”

“Not to my knowledge. This is rather a unique situation. The practice of binding other souls to a living body is not unheard of. Certain magis, mainly necromants, will sometimes do this, for a variety of reasons. Perhaps they wish to obtain some knowledge from the soul, perhaps they wish to keep a loved one close. Some might even use it as a punishment for the soul, forcing it to a continued, wretched existence with no influence on anything around them.”

“Kinda dangerous to punish someone like that,” Jackson pointed out. “What if the soul takes over the punisher’s body and, like, throws itself off a cliff or something?”

Azazel’s head abruptly turned to Jackson.

“Take over?” she said. She looked at Byron again. “Have you taken control of his body? Before the priest cursed you, I mean.”

“A few times,” Byron answered.

“A lot of times,” Jackson said.

The Archmage considered the two of them in silence for a while.

“I take it that’s not a good thing?” Byron said.

“It… is not supposed to happen,” Azazel said. “Ordinarily, a magi tethering a soul to their body would use magic to ensure that the soul remains entirely under their control, and separate from their own soul. The bound soul can in no circumstances control their actions.”

“Right, but I got no magic,” Jackson said.

“Indeed, and thus you cannot keep your and his soul separated. As to the fact that he can take over your body… That is concerning. Do tell me: have there been any osmotic effects?

“Any what?”

“Have you shared any knowledge? Memories, perhaps?”

“Ah. Yes. It was kinda weird at first: I was remembering stuff that didn’t happen to me. Hell, I remembered some stuff that happened before I was born.”

The Archmage turned to Byron.

“Yes, I’ve seen some of his memories as well,” he said.

Azazel’s breath came out as a hiss through the holes in her mask.

“What’s wrong with that?” Jackson asked.

“Again, souls are supposed to be separate entities. If you cannot maintain any degree of separation between the two of you, and both your souls continue to mingle…”

She didn’t finish that thought.

“Then what?” Jackson said, a pang of worry hitting his chest. “What’s going to happen?”

“Are we going to merge into a single individual?” Byron said. “Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Azazel tutted. “In truth, I do not know. This is an unprecedented case, as far as I’m aware. Yes, maybe your souls will merge. What will happen then? Will they form one new soul, one new individual made out of all or most of your parts? It is possible, I think. It is also possible that your two souls will poison each other by mixing, like blood and pus.”

The pang of worry in Jackson’s chest now felt like a stake stabbing his stomach. 

“We could die?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“Perhaps. Or one of you could overcome the other and could live on. But as to what life would look like, I truly do not know. The only thing of which I’m certain, is that this current situation is not sustainable. For either of you.”

Jackson noticed his hands were encroaching on the edge of his chair’s arms, like the claws of a bird holding to the branch of a tree. His joints had turned white. A rapid pulse was beating in his ear. His insides were ice cold. Jackson relaxed his hands, and tried some of the breathing exercises Byron had taught him to slow his heart.

This was strange. He had faced death many times in the last few years, and in many ways. The necromant and his magic, the two thieves in Atvello, and more soldiers on the battlefield that he could begin to count. He had been scared then, or so he thought. This threat was far less tangible than the weapons of his enemies, and far more remote. Hell, it wasn’t even a certain threat, only the possibility of one.

Yet, Jackson could not remember ever being as afraid as he was now.

“How long will it take?” Byron asked.

“I am uncertain. I have studied the both of you, and from what I can tell, you have not yet suffered any ill effects from this tethering. Months could go by before problems arise, or possibly years. But I doubt it will be very long.”

“Fuck,” a voice whispered. It took Jackson a moment to realize it was his, hoarse to the point where it sounded like someone else’s entirely.

“I am sorry to be the bearer of such news,” Azazel said, her tone still not carrying any inflection that might indicate sorrow -but maybe that was just her voice?

“Well… You’re an Archmage. Isn’t there anything you can do?” Jackson said. “Like… I don’t know. Can’t you, uh… Can’t you disconnect his soul from my body? And, like, put it in another body? Give him a body of his own, I mean?”

“As to your second suggestion,” she slowly said, “many magis willing to dabble in the Secret Arcanes have tried, usually in an effort to cheat their own death. They have all failed, sometimes with terrible consequences. The Imperial Cult and the Inquisition believe that only the gods -that is: their god- may insufflate a soul in a body, and they are not alone in that belief. Still, some continue to believe that it is just another puzzle to solve, another mystery to unveil.”

“I’m guessing you haven’t solved or unveiled it either,” Byron said.

“I have not, but then again I have made scant efforts to try. As to the first suggestion Sir Jackson made, untethering a soul from a body is no simple matter. It requires a precision that suffers no mistake, and it has to be done quickly, less the soul ends up damaged -too damaged to heal. This too has been attempted countless times by countless people, including myself, and has yielded a long series of failures. In spite of all my arcane knowledge, I am cognizant of but one way to efficiently detach a soul from the body.”

“Killing the body,” the veteran said. 

The Archmage nodded sharply. “Indeed. A quick death of the body severs all of its soul’s ties at once.”

“Right. Obviously, that’s not an option.”

“God fucking damnit,” Jackson muttered. “There’s nothing you can do, then?”

“I’m afraid not,” Azazel said.

He groaned, then threw his head back and took a big breath. “Okay, so… Damnit. Okay. Let’s- Let’s forget about it for a moment. Back to what Byron asked: what happens to him if we go back to our world? There’s no magic there -not that I know of.”

“None whatsoever,” Azazel confirmed. “Or if there is, it is so significantly different from this world’s magic as to be completely incompatible. And as to what will happen to you, Lord Byron, I think you’ve already intuited the answer.”

“Without magic,” Byron said gravely, “I’ll… vanish.”

The Archmage nodded. “I do not know how exactly it will happen, as once again this is something I have never observed before, but yes, that is almost certain. The magic naturally present in this world’s environment is what currently sustains your soul. Think of it as water to a fish; or rather, as the air contained in the water. To move that fish into a water that contains no air…”

“Yeah, I get the picture.”

He ran a hand over his face.

“Right, well, going back there is obviously not an option either, then,” Jackson said.

“Jackson…” Byron said.

“What? I don’t want to go back, and you sure as Hell don’t either. Shit, I mean, I get that the way things are for you isn’t great, but it’s better than…” He threw his hands in the air.

“Jackson.”

“And you saved me, what? A dozen times? Fuck, I can’t actually count how many times. I’m not gonna sacrifice you. Especially not for that.”

“Jackson.”

The young man jumped out of his seat, his rant intensifying.

“This is bullshit. Why are we talking about this? There is nothing to even talk about. After everything we’ve accomplished here, and how much it cost us, we’re just gonna give up? No. Fuck no.”

“Jack.”

“What?” Jackson grunted, turning on his heels to face Byron.

“It may be the only way to save your life,” the veteran said, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Jackson blinked, his anger suddenly leaving him.

“Right?” Byron asked the Archmage.

“Probably, yes,” Azazel said. “That would indeed untether your soul from sir Jackson’s body without causing the latter any harm. As to his own soul, I suppose it will depend on the degree to which it and your soul have mingled.”

“I-” He blinked again. “But… What about your life, Byron?”

Byron’s mouth stretched. “I’m already dead, remember? There’s not much to lose here.”

Jackson stared at him, completely at loss for words. He felt… He had no idea how to describe how he felt. Empty, as if his body had been robbed of his organs, yet at the same time terribly heavy. Burning hot like he had a bad fever, and simultaneously terribly cold. And tired. Or fatigued. Or spent. Or drained.

His mind was filled with so many thoughts it was like white noise. He wanted to run. He wanted to run until he passed out from exhaustion. He wanted to lay down and never get up again. He wanted to drink until his last grey cell was dissolved in ethanol. He wanted… He wanted Alizana. That last one was more of a need: he needed Alizana. And Sathariel.

After what might have been an eternity, Azazel spoke again.

“I have said all I wished to say. Now, I believe it is time for you to come back. Please remember my offer.”

As a Cambion popped up again and led Jackson and Byron back to the room in which they had arrived, the room behind them went back to darkness.

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