The Pulver Chronicles – 44. A Path Of No Return

If the news of the battle of Baluq had caused quite a stir in the Southern Marches, it was nothing in comparison to the fallout of the siege of Badel Fort. For a while, it seemed everyone from Atvello to Wintry Bay talked about how Elyonn, Archcommander of the Gold and Crimson Legion, had fallen in battle, killed by a brave knight of the Silver Steed during the desperate defence of the castle. Every bard and minstrel sang about how two Legions had then been attacked by an Imperial army in the northeast, led by the Emperor himself and including Inquisition soldiers, as well as a Hellhound army in the west, how one of those Legions just about managed to fight their way out and retreat, while the other was trapped, surrounded, and eventually wiped out to a man. In fact, it took a little over a month for two songs to be written about it all: one heroic focusing on the battle itself, one tragic focusing on the knight’s death.

Jackson asked Ardito to sing both of those songs to him quite a few times during his convalescence. This was in part because he had little else in the way of entertainment: Alizana wouldn’t let him leave their hut until his ribs had completely healed; she barely allowed him to leave the bed. Sathariel visited him several times a day to try and keep him from being bored, and Enita came once a day to make sure he was healing right. Those were initially the only visitors Alizana would allow. But after some convincing, she also allowed the bard to visit, though not for too long.

But the main reason was that hearing those songs soothed him, at least a little. Especially the second one, the song Ardito himself had come up with after the last battle. To hear his friend being celebrated, and knowing he would be remembered for generations to come… It almost made up for the fact that Jackson would never see David Schultz again. Listening to Ardito’s melodious voice sing the refrain while playing his citole, he could almost erase the image of his friend as he was holding him one last time.

Sadly, it would all too soon come back. Regularly, Jackson’s mind would transport him back to the keep of Badel Fort. Closing his eyes, he would see David again, with his face turning grey, blood dripping from his mouth, and his eyes growing vacant, never to come into focus again. Then, without thinking, he would retrieve his friend’s dog tags from his pocket, and slowly run his thumb over the characters.

Jackson barely remembered what had happened after his friend had died of the terrible wound inflicted to him by Elyonn. At some point, he had regained enough mental strength to will himself to go back to the fight in spite of his wound; in truth, it was more anger than strength that had motivated him from then on. He, Alizana, and the Hellhounds kept on fighting alongside the Imperials who had been invigorated by the death of the Archcommander, unlike the Legionnaires whose morale had dropped. He vaguely recalled pushing back the enemy, all the way out of the keep, then rallying with the defenders from the northern wall in the courtyard. He wasn’t sure how long after that the bell was rung atop one of the watchtowers, indicating the arrival of the reinforcing armies; it might have been a few minutes, or half an hour. At that point, the Legionnaires still in the keep had abandoned what little hope they had left of winning the day, and either fled Badel Fort or fought to the death. The defenders, all winded or hurt, didn’t give chase to the former, leaving them to the Emperor and his troops. Jackson had more or less lost consciousness soon after, the adrenaline and the anger no longer containing the effects of pain, and was only told what had happened next.

He had woken up some time later, after the battle was over, to Enita tending to him and Alizana holding his hand. Enita’s healing abilities had dulled Jackson’s pain considerably, but as to the broken ribs, all she could do was ensure that their natural healing would happen properly. The Emperor had entered the castle, hailed by his soldiers. Damian III was led to the keep, and to David’s body. He had not spoken any word, and his face had remained inexpressive, but the look in his eyes had said it all. The Emperor had asked Jackson about David -Sir Gawain, as he called him-, and he told him what happened. Not much more had been said between the two men, and soon Damian had left, his people carrying David’s body away.

Next thing Jackson knew, he was back in the Neha camp, once again with Alizana and Enita by his side, as well as a very anxious-looking Sathariel. The Demon even had tears in his eyes as he hugged his friend -a little too tightly for Jackson’s ribs.

Finally, after nearly two months of bedrest, and a lot of boredom, Enita finally declared Jackson to be healed. He had a few drinks with Sathariel to celebrate, and later in the afternoon went to exercise, trying to lose the pounds he had gained. It took only half an hour of jogging around the camp for him to get winded, when before he could last a little over an hour.

“I guess it’s going to take some time before I’m on the top of my game again,” he said to Byron.

Happily, the veteran didn’t instruct him to push himself beyond his limits. He actually encouraged him to take it easy instead. After a bit of sword training, Jackson was let off the hook.

A lot had happened during his recovery; as said, the siege of Badel Fort had had quite an impact. Firstly and most importantly, the Gold and Crimson Legions were reported by Sathariel’s spies to be in disarray after the loss of their leader. Elyonn had designated no successor before his death, and many believed it was only a matter of time -months, at the most- before every general made a claim for the title of Archcommander. In addition, his death had greatly hurt morale among the Legionnaires, and there were rumors that quite a few of them had deserted, dismayed that their leader’s proclaimed fate as the Armilus had not come to pass, but instead been thwarted by the Emperor’s blood.

Jackson chuckled to himself. It wasn’t even the Emperor’s blood that did it. He was probably the only one with Alizana and Sathariel who knew David had no relation to the Emperor’s family. The Archcommander had in fact been killed by a simple soldier -with, okay, some help from one of the Archcommander’s peers. The sweetness of that detail undercut the bitterness of everything else, a little.

Secondly, Badel Fort had not been the Hexacracy’s only defeat. The attacks on Atvello and the Steelfort ended badly as well, and though they were merely meant as a distraction from the main event at Badel Plains, the loss of men was still felt by the Hexacrats. On top of that, the Emperor wasted no time in exploiting his enemies’ weakness. His armies advanced in the Southern Marches, regaining two marches from the Hexacracy in as many months. The fate of their marquesses was still up in the air, some Imperial nobles arguing that they should be forgiven and kept in place, others suggesting they be replaced with more loyal subjects.

Predictably, Neasa demanded the Hellhounds follow the Empire’s example and led some attacks against the Hexacracy. Alizana was very reluctant to send their armies, who had still not completely recovered from the battle of the Broken Teeth, on the offensive. Quite a few chieftains agreed with her, and eventually it was agreed that, while another battle was out of the question, several skirmishes against the Hexacrat armies would sap their morale further, and possibly sway more villages into joining the Alliance.

Over the following months, Jackson enjoyed some peace and quiet in the Vertrisian Forest. He focused on getting back into shape and taking it easy, the latter mostly on Alizana’s insistence. For a while, it looked like there wasn’t a war going on: the Hexacracy was no longer launching any attacks or laying any sieges, and now focused solely on its defence, trying to recover from their losses. Meanwhile, the Eastern Empire kept advancing, surely, methodically. Some people predicted the remaining Archdemons might sue for peace within a year. This meant the war might end after only a little over three years, when some feared it would have gone on for a decade or so.

While this was excellent news, some among the Southern Alliance, including a few among the Hellhound chieftains couldn’t help but worry as to what it meant for them. The non-aggression agreement signed with the Eastern Empire made no provision for an early end of the conflict. Opinion was divided on what would transpire from then on. The more optimistic such as Jackson believed that the Emperor would continue to honor the treaty, and eventually come to accept the existence of the Southern Alliance as an independent polity, but many others were of a mind that Damian III would not so easily renounce his Empire’s claim over the South. Neither, for that matter, would most Imperials and indeed many Southrons. As Sathariel pointed out to Jackson when they discussed the matter, the Emperor might have promised not to take up arms against the Hellhounds and their allies, but he had also oathed to bring the South into the Imperial realm -supposedly, he had actually taken that oath the day he was crowned, before an assembly of dukes and counts.

“So what do you think he’s gonna do about that?” Jackson asked his friend.

“I’m not sure,” Sathariel said. “In the same situation, I’d wager an Archdemon would try and provoke us into violating the treaty, to justify going to war.”

“He’s not that kind of guy. From what I can tell, he actually has principles, and he believes in them.”

“You only met him once,” his Demon friend pointed out. “But I suppose that’s more than I can say. In that case, I guess he’ll try to subjugate the Southern Alliance through non-violent means.”

“Such as?”

Jackson extended his feet under the table around at which they were eating their dinner, located near the campfire at the center of the camp. It was summertime, and with the rising temperatures, eating outside in the evenings was becoming commonplace.

“Well… Your friend Byron suggested the Empire could make Atvello bend the knee by choking their economy. I suppose they might do the same for the Allied villages that rely on trade. Alternatively, the Empire could appeal to the culture or the faith of the Southrons. I’m told a lot of them have not taken well to the spread of trinitarism.”

“Don’t you have any way to know for sure what they’re gonna do? You’re the spymaster.”

“Yes, but unfortunately my people and I have been focusing on the Hexacracy so far. They are the biggest threat. Well, used to be the biggest threat, now, I suppose.”

“Do you have, like, any contacts in the Empire? Another captain boning his general’s wife, maybe?”

“Heh, unfortunately not. I have some contacts in villages, but that’s it.”

Sathariel finished his mushroom soup -his own recipe, which he came up with after dozens of failed attempts at making something edible- and wiped his mouth with the crumb of his bread.

“We’re gonna need more intel,” Jackson said. “Do you still have some Human spies? Some who speak Imperial, ideally.”

The Demon nodded. “Oh, yes. But do you… really want to start spying on the Empire? I thought you believed the Emperor would accept our independence.”

“I do, and Byron is rolling his eyes at me right now.”

The veteran was, indeed, standing beside him. He kept quiet, but Jackson knew what he wanted to say: something about naivete, and about how those who wanted peace had better prepare for war.

“And he’s got a point,” Jackson said. “Hoping for the best is fine and all, but we’d better be ready for the worst.”

“I agree. Though you do realize this could cause issues if we are found out?”

“Probably, but…” Jackson glanced at Byron, then looked around to make sure no one was in listening range. “I need to tell you something. The Empire is spying on us already.”

“What?” Sathariel’s eyes bulged. “How do you know this?”

“Well, I don’t actually know this, but we’re pretty sure. Some things Dave said… Like, he told us the Hexacracy probably had spies among us.”

“The Hexacracy too? By the Three…” The Demon ran a hand over his face.

“Right. I didn’t get it at first, but Liz and Byron told me later that the only way the Empire could know this is if they had spies among us too.”

“I can’t believe this,” Sathariel muttered, more to himself than to Jackson. “I’ve been so focused on outside threats that I have neglected inside threats.” He grumbled, then combed back his hair, which was getting bushy again. “I think… I have some idea who the Hexacrat spies might be. A couple villages near the Hexacrat borders had been curiously spared by the warrior-monks’ raids, even though they were poorly defended and isolated. Some of their villagers regularly come to Vertrisia to trade their food; no doubt they hear things when they do. I will have some of my people watch them next time they come by.”

“Isn’t it a little too late? The Hexacracy’s pretty much gone. Who cares if they still have spies?”

“Those spies already sold their loyalty to one of our enemies. What if they sold it again to someone else?”

Jackson had nothing to answer to that, and instead chose to finish his soup.

“And what about the Imperial spies?” he said after a moment. “Any idea who they could be?”

“Unfortunately not,” Sathariel sighed. “It could be some of the older people who still remember the blessed -in their eyes- time when the Empire ruled them. It could be some of Neasa’s victims, or someone who’s heard of what she’s done and wants to stop it. Hell, it could be anyone who’s willing to trade intelligence for coin.”

“It would have to be someone who knows things, though, right? Someone who has, like, access.”

“True, true.” Sathariel pushed away his empty bowl, and crossed his arms on the table. 

By the look in his eyes, Jackson could tell he was deep in thought, no doubt establishing a list of suspects in his mind. After a while, he poured himself a cup of mead, and said:

“Alright, I’ll submit the idea of sending spies to the Empire at the next war council.”

“Uh, actually… Is there any way you could, like… just take the initiative on this one?”

The Demon lowered an eyebrow. “You mean, without telling anyone? That’s… risky.”

“Yeah, but… Look, we don’t know who the spies are, right? For all we know, it could be one of the war chiefs.”

“Not likely.”

“No, it’s not,” Jackson admitted, “but it’s possible. Or at least, it could be someone close to them. A friend, a mate… You know.”

Sathariel drank some of his mead.

“What about Liz?” he said. “I’m not lying to her.”

“We can get Liz in the loop, that’s fine. She should know about this.”

“Then she would be lying to the war chiefs, to her sisters. And you know how she feels about that.”

“Yeah…” Jackson sighed. “Fine. I guess we can tell the war council. But we have to make sure -and I mean really, really sure- that no one else hears about it.”

“Of course. Anyway, we’ll just tell them our intention to spy on the Empire and get their approval. We won’t tell them who the spies will be or where they’ll operate. Only Liz needs to know about that.”

“Probably best we don’t mention anything about spies among us, too.”

“Agreed.”

Jackson got himself some mead as well, and clinked his cup with his friend’s. The mead came from Tinaun. It was dark orange, tasted rather hoppy, and often contained little flakes of yeast; the alcoholic content was pretty high, too. Jackson wasn’t a big fan, but it was Sathariel’s favorite.

The war council came the week after that conversation. Surprisingly, it was smooth and peaceful, as far as war councils went. The death of Elyonn and the perspective of an early end to the conflict had relieved many a war chief’s mind. Neasa’s absence might have something to do with that, as well: the chieftain was busy on a raid against the Hexacracy, far from Vertrisia. Sathariel’s proposal ruffled a few feathers, however. Several war chiefs took this as confirmation that war with the Empire was inevitable; imminent, even. Jackson’s assurances that it was just a precaution did little to alleviate those concerns. Still, the motion was approved with a large majority.

Bonnie Gardner visited the Neha camp the day after, once again bringing supplies. She was, as often, accompanied by several members of her tribe. That day, however, they didn’t stay in the camp for a few drinks, as they usually did. They barely even chatted with the Nehans; while they weren’t usually loquacious, this time they might as well have been mute. In addition, they almost seemed in a hurry to leave.

“Is something going on?” Jackson asked Bonnie.

“I mean- Lots of things are going on,” Bonnie said. She sounded nervous, or possibly rushed? “Your people are not the only ones affected by the war… Or by peace.”

Before Jackson could ask her what she meant by that, she excused herself, mentioning the long way back home, and left with her group.

“That didn’t sound good,” Jackson told Byron.

“No… It didn’t.”

“You think they’re worried about the Empire too?”

Byron shook his head. “Maybe.”

Jackson vowed to himself to look into that at a later time.

Summer went by, a little cooler than last year thanks to the winds, and yielding an excellent harvest all through the South. It was as if nature itself was celebrating the death of Elyonn; in fact, some devouts of the Imperial Cult believed just that. The fall arrived late, temperature-wise, but made up for it with heavier rains than usual. A storm even erupted in the middle of the second month, strong enough to bring down trees. Fortunately, while this resulted in the destruction of a few huts and in several injuries, there was no loss of life. Or rather, no loss of Human or Humanoid life: several animals were found killed, including some of the tribes’ horses.

More news came from the outside world during the third month of fall. The situation had gone from bad to worse for the Hexacracy: following a series of small engagements that all ended in defeat, they had been forced to abandon a lot of the territory they had gained during the war. Compounding this loss, several of the marquesses that had oathed their loyalty to the Hexacracts had sensed the wind changing, and joined the Empire instead. When winter arrived, the Hexacracy had lost all but the northwestern portion of the Southern Marches. Meanwhile, an Archcommander had emerged to lead the Gold and Crimson Legions once again, after defeating the other pretenders. Several of Sathariel’s spies reported his victory had been ensured by some outside influences; they suspected Rakshasa, but Sathariel himself believed it was Azazel. By all accounts, the new Archcommander didn’t have as much authority over the other Archdemons as his predecessor, and in fact was essentially a pawn for whomever had helped him gain the position.

A rainy but mild winter saw a stalling of the Empire’s progression, which some feared might give the Hexacracy an opportunity to rebuild their forces. Far from it, in reality: Sathariel’s spies learned that the Archcourtesan Rakshasa would be meeting with the Emperor on the first day of the spring in Fort Oxan, a small fortified place located in the March of Trellem, east of Vrittion, next to the border with the Hexacracy. What everyone knew to be inevitable had finally come to pass: the Hexacracy had sued for peace.

“Peace at last,” Alizana sighed as she heard the news from Sathariel. She asked him: “Do you believe the Hexacracy will try to keep on to what little of the Southern Marches they have left?”

They were tending to the horses of the Neha tribe as they spoke. There were fewer of them now, after years of conflict. Jackson was particularly saddened to hear that Princess had passed away during his convalescence. The poor horse had been the unfortunate victim of a fallen tree, which had also damaged the corral.

“Unlikely, they can barely hold it as it is, and the Emperor has proved that he’s willing to fight them out of the Marches completely,” Sathariel said. “No. They’ll negotiate peace, and the safe withdrawal of their armies -what’s left of them.”

“Wow. I knew this was coming, but still,” Jackson said. “We’re definitely gonna have a party after that. But right now, we should prepare for the journey. Trellem is pretty fucking far.”

“We are not invited,” Sathariel said.

“Wait, seriously? We won’t be there for the negotiations?” The Demon shook his head. “So, what, are we gonna sign a separate document or something?”

“I doubt it.”

“So… what? They ain’t gonna keep on fighting us, are they?”

“No, of course not, but the Hexacracy simply doesn’t want to give our Rebellion any legitimacy by openly negotiating with us like with the Empire,” Sathariel explained. “And they don’t want to give us any concessions either. So no war, but no peace either.”

“One last scorn at us for rebelling against them,” Alizana said. She scoffed. “Ah, it doesn’t matter. Let them ignore us as they flee back to their lands with their tails between their legs.”

“Holy shit, guys, we did it!” Jackson said, placing his hands on Sathariel’s and Alizana’s shoulders. “Back when this all started, nobody betted on us. The Hexacracy thought they could crush us like a bug, but in the end, we killed not one, not two, but three goddamn Archdemons.”

Well, let’s say two and half. I have to split the credit for the last one. That thought brought David back to his mind, along with a bitter taste in his mouth. No, he told himself as he refilled one of the mangers, this is not a time to be sad.

“So, how are we going to celebrate Victory Day?” he asked the others. “Obviously, we should start with the ceremonial stuff, before we get drunk.”

“Bit early to celebrate, don’t you think?” Sathariel said.

“Seth’s right, Jack. The war is not over,” Alizana said.

“We have a truce with the Empire,” Jackson said. “And I told you, the Emperor’s not gonna break it. I met with the man; he respects us, he won’t break his promise.”

“Well, I haven’t met with him,” Sathariel said. “But my spies have met several of his nobles. They have little respect for us, and they definitely will not be satisfied with merely a portion of the Southern Marches. There’s this duke Evrart Brannon in particular I think we should watch out for. An ambitious one, I’m told. I’m having my spies focus on him as well as the Emperor.”

“Sure, some of his nobles suck, I guess. I mean, that’s the deal with nobles: all they ever care about is power and glory. But it doesn’t matter. They’re not in charge, and they won’t defy the Emperor.”

“How do you know?”

Jackson licked his lip as he picked up a brush. Florid immediately came to him, even though he had already been taken care of by Alizana.

“‘Cause it’s too risky. I mean, going against your boss’ orders? That’s the kinda shit they’d lose their title over. It’s just not worth it. What, you don’t agree?” he asked, seeing Sathariel’s skeptical expression.

“You just make it sound very simple, Jack. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being a spymaster, it’s that war is never simple.”

“And neither are politics,” Byron said, appearing next to Florid. “Sathariel’s right: this is far from over.”

The young man decided to drop this topic, and focused on the horses. Later, though, as he was alone by the river, washing his clothes, he decided to resume the conversation, this time with Byron.

“All right, give it to me straight. What do you think is going to happen next?”

“I don’t see the future, Jackson,” Byron said. “But I know there are many ways to win a war. Not all of them involve weapons.”

“What does that mean?”

“Remember how there are a lot of people among the Southern Alliance who wish to rejoin the Empire instead?”

“I don’t know that there are a lot of them,” Jackson said.

“There’s probably more of them than we know; we’ve only heard of the ones who openly express such opinions. But my point is, the Empire most likely knows about them as well. Remember, they have people among us. If I were the Emperor, or whoever is in charge of intelligence, I wouldn’t just use my spies to collect intel. I’d also use them to find those pro-Empire people, and give them some discrete support. Bolster their position, increase their influence, encourage them to convince others. Help a strong pro-Empire faction grow inside the Southern Alliance, to later use as a support base to sway towns and villages into changing sides.”

Jackson rubbed the blade of his left hand with his thumb. This was along the lines of what Sathariel suggested, but more detailed.

“Right… Do you think that could work?”

“It’s part of what I did in Sakha, although that was mostly Kara’s thing. It was pretty effective, especially as the Soviet Union’s central power weakened.”

Jackson couldn’t help but notice how Byron had temporarily gone glassy-eyed as he spoke Kara’s name.

“And I probably don’t need to remind you, but our own power is not as strong as it used to be. The dissension caused by Neasa and her supporters… and her actions… The Empire can use that against us. And they will, I’d bet money on that.”

“Yeah, we should really keep an eye on Neasa. She doesn’t have any Hexacrats to vent her anger at now, so who knows what she’s gonna do?” He sighed. “About those pro-Empire guys, what do you think we should do?”

“Unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do, aside from what we’re already doing. Our main focus should be to continue defending the towns and protecting the roads to prevent banditry from hindering trade. There’s bound to be a lot of deserters and unemployed mercenaries roaming the land now. Our second focus should be to ensure peace between marches and towns; keep our Alliance united. There has been some trouble on that front.”

Indeed, Jackson remembered how there had been quite a few feuds and disputes between members of the Alliance. The causes had seemed trivial to him, but were evidently of great importance to the involved parties. Matters of land ownership, grazing rights, hunting rights… And of course, disputes about money. The chief one was the problem of reconstruction. The war had left deep scars over the land, as well as in the towns and villages. Fields had been burned, buildings had been torched, granaries had been sacked. Entire villages had been wiped from the map, their population slaughtered or enslaved when they couldn’t flee.

This brought up the matter of reconstruction. Looted villages needed seeds for their fields, towns needed rebuilding, infrastructure needed to be remade. All of this, naturally, required money. And while the Southern Alliance was not quite broke, its budget was tight. This meant that some expenses had to be prioritized over others. And that, in turn, meant that some places and people would be… well, not forgotten, but at least not taken care of for a while. This caused a sense of unfairness among some.

When those issues first arose, Jackson hadn’t wanted to get involved. He had always hated politics, and furthermore he thought it would be better to let the Allied towns and villages decide for themselves; he wasn’t their ruler, and didn’t want to be. Sadly, that had proven to be wishful thinking. Old grudges, feuds, and rivalries between Southrons made cooperation complicated, in some cases impossible. Eventually, Byron had imagined a system wherein a group of mayors, village chiefs, and other leaders would form a committee overseeing these budgetary decisions. Matters of dispute would be submitted to them, and claimants would make their case, then the committee would rule on how the money would be best spent. Initially, Byron had wanted these committee members to be nominated by a vote, but rapidly decided it would be better for them to be selected at random, with the caveat that they would recuse themselves if the debated matter concerned their own town or village.

Not a perfect solution by any means -in fact, it had caused a few problems that still needed to be solved-, but it got things done.

“Ah, yeah…” Jackson said. “Not sure what can be done about that at this point, other than hoping things will take care of themselves through the committee.”

“Like I said, there isn’t much more we can do,” Byron said. “Just keep an eye out and be ready to intervene if things are about to go out of control. What I’m saying is, if we look like we can’t do our job as coordinators and peacemakers, people will look to the Empire for that. That’s another thing the Empire can do to undermine us.”

“You think they’d sabotage us?” Jackson suggested.

“Not necessarily. But they can give money to help with the reconstruction, especially in places we have neglected. Their economy dwarves ours by several orders of magnitude, even with Atvello on our side. They can outspend us, and not just in money: materials and skilled workers, as well.”

“Shit. You make it sound pretty bad.”

“It is bad,” Byron said. “But not desperate. When I said that this is far from over, I meant it both ways: we are not giving up. What we’re doing is worth it.”

Jackson blinked and smiled. “Wow, idealism from Byron? Will wonders ever cease?”

“I said I would help the Hellhounds protect their freedom, and I’m not going back on my word. And right now, the best way to do that is to keep the Southern Alliance together.”

“So it can be done,” Jackson said. “We can win against the Empire.”

Byron licked his lips. “It will be hard. It will take a long time. It will be costly. But yes, I believe we can win.”

“And if, uh…” The young man pushed his dryadelle shirt under the water to soak it. “I don’t really want to think about it, but if…”

“If it comes to war against the Empire, what are our chances?” Byron said.

“Yeah.”

The veteran took a moment to think, staring down at the river, his expression inscrutable. His silence stretched into long minutes, and Jackson grew more anxious. The latter had finished cleaning his pants when Byron breathed in deeply and said:

“I don’t know.”

“Wha- What do you mean you don’t know?” Jackson said, a little panicked. Somehow, that was worse for him than if his friend had said “no”.

“It’s not so simple. There are multiple factors to take into account.”

“Like what? Their numbers?”

“That’s one factor, of course. I don’t need to remind you that, even after three years of war, they still outnumber us.”

“So did the Hexacracy, we still kicked their asses.”

“We never faced their entire armies, the Empire did. If we had, the war would have gone very differently.”

He sat down on a rock and rubbed his forehead.

“I suppose I might be able to take advantage of any tactical or strategic mistakes the Emperor or his generals may commit, and destroy one or several of the Empire’s armies in battle. That’s unlikely, however, as I’m fairly sure the Emperor has been studying our victories and the tactics we used to earn them. Unless I can think of something completely new, the Empire may well see through whatever gambit I’m trying to pull.

“That’s the military factor. Secondly, the Empire has a much stronger economy than ours, as I said, meaning it can withstand a long conflict. It wouldn’t emerge unscathed, of course, but it would recover from whatever damage it endures. Rather than meet us in battle, they could decide to wage a war of attrition against us, slowly bleed our armies with skirmishes and small engagements. This would cost us troops -and they must know how difficult it is for us to raise more-, money, and supplies, as well as affect our morale. As for us, there is little we can do to damage their economy. Even if we were so immoral or so desperate as to unleash Neasa and her reavers on Imperial lands, leaving her free to loot her slaughter all she likes, it would barely make a dent. The Empire occupies a territory about three times as big as the Southern Marches; it would take a hundred Neasas to burn even most of its fields.

“Morale is actually the third factor in this equation. Right now, the Imperials’ morale is most likely at an all-time high. Elyonn has been killed -by an Imperial knight, no less-, a large part of the South has been recovered, and the Empire has won its recent battles to the point that the Hexacracy is now laying down its weapons. As to the Emperor, his reputation is likewise soaring high. If he manages to negotiate the complete withdrawal of the Hexacrat troops and for the Archdemons to forgo any claim over the South, which given the Empire’s and the Hexacracy’s respective positions is very likely, his people will idolize him.”

Byron dipped his hand into the water, which of course remained still and undisturbed.

“If I have to wage war against the Empire, the only strategies that might have a shot at getting us victory would be to either hinder the Imperials’ morale, or drive a wedge between the Emperor and his soldiers. Either way, this would convince the Empire that the war is not worth it, and lead them to negotiate some kind of peace with honor with us. Most likely, we would be allowed to keep our part of the Marches, and they would get the rest. On paper, those strategies could work. In practice…”

“In practice,” Jackson said, “the Imperials are still super hyped about the war, and they’re probably giving the Emperor’s name to their kids.”

“Exactly,” Byron sighed wearily. “So, yeah, in the end, I don’t know what our chances are.”

“I see… Thanks.”

Jackson’s mood was rather subdued over the next few days. Even physical exercise didn’t completely remedy that, although it did make him realize he had almost totally recovered from his injury. He still felt a little weak when he coughed, hadn’t recovered his stamina from before, and once felt a sting of pain when he sneezed; according to Enita, whom he went to consult later that week, those sequels might be permanent. Jackson was a little disappointed to hear that, but reasoned that he had had it pretty good, especially compared to others who had been wounded in that same battle. One of the mercenaries, for instance, had been so badly hurt that his left hand and his entire left leg had to be amputated. Argyro had performed the operation, thankfully so far away from camp that the screams were only faintly heard.

Winter ended a little late that year. News of the peace treaty between the Hexacracy and the Empire reached the Vertrisian Forest. Like Byron and many others had predicted, the accords were very one-sided: the Hexacracy had agreed to remove all of their troops from the South, and not only abandoned all claim over the Marches but also recognized the Empire’s claim over them. Furthermore, all five of the Archdemons (Yerleg had still not been replaced) signed an agreement to not engage in any hostilities against the Empire, its interests, or its allies in the next ten years. According to Byron, that agreement was redundant: the Hexacracy would not be in any shape to go to war against the Empire again in the near future anyway. Most likely, it had been demanded by the Emperor to add to the humiliation for the Hexacrats, ensuring they would remember that defeat, and to gain extra bonus points with his nobility. 

Peace was celebrated all through the Southern Marches, and, according to traveling traders and bards, also in the Empire. Feasts went on in towns and cities, sometimes for weeks. Jackson and Alizana travelled the Southern Alliance, having been invited to take part in some of these celebrations. The first one, taking place in Tinaun, was pretty fun in Jackson’s opinion. He and Alizana were acclaimed as heroes by the folk, and even called saviors of the town by Basila, who was still mayor. The second one, held in a big village called Gadau, was more subdued, as the locals were all members of some obscure, old religion that frowned on alcohol and what they called “public debauchery”; still, the food was good, and the people there were good singers. The third celebration, however, was the one Jackson would remember the most, and not necessarily for good reasons.

Taking place in Laluon, a town almost as big as Tinaun and located west of Vertrisia, it has started quite well, with songs and dances, and music loud enough to fill the valley in which the town rested. Then came the feast, with an abundance of food and drinks. The town was reputed for its sheep and its apples, which made up for most of the servings; Alizana definitely appreciated the bone rolled shoulder, while Jackson developed a fondness for the cider. The first few courses had gone very well, and then came the time for the toasts. The people of Laluon first toasted to the end of the war, of course, and to their guests. But then, someone raised his glass and offered a toast to “the Emperor Damian Steedian, the third of his name, vanquisher of the Hexacracy, and liberator of the South”. A certain awkwardness had followed those words, until several others cheered and toasted as well. Others remained as they were, their hands away from their cups. Jackson spotted a few glares between the locals. The mayor had then hurriedly added his own toast to some local deity, and hoped for good crops. The rest of the feast had gone on in a much tenser manner.

“Well, if the Empire comes for Laluon only to find the gates open,” Byron had later said, “we know who will have opened them.”

This event made the possibility Byron brought up, of the creation of a pro-Empire faction amidst the Allied population, feel much more real. He discussed this with Alizana, and with Sathariel when they came back to the Neha camp. Sathariel suggested placing some of his people in the main towns of the Southern Alliance, to watch the activity of pro-Empire agents. Alizana had immediately frowned, and reminded him what she thought of spying on her own people. Jackson defended the idea, saying those would in fact be counter-spies, meant to prevent the Empire from spying, and more. Alizana eventually let herself be convinced to bring this to the council, though with visible reluctance.

When Alizana entered her hut, she immediately laid down on her cot, even though the sun was barely setting. Jackson sat by her.

“Tired?” he said. “We have been partying pretty hard.”

In response, she took him by the hand, gently dragged him against her, then wrapped her arms around him. She stuck her nose in his hair, and breathed him deeply. Jackson had noticed she often did that when she needed to occupy her mind.

“I hope the war is over, Jack, I really do.”

“It would be nice not to have to go back to battle,” Jackson said, rubbing his ribs.

“Yes… Or to have to lead my people into battle again. I can’t even remember how many we’ve lost.”

Jackson adjusted his position to be more comfortable, placing his cheek against the patch of fur above her chest. One of his hands moved to her breast. She let him.

“There are days I wish I could leave my position of chieftain of chieftains,” Alizana confessed. “It has become too…”

“Stressful?” Jackson suggested.

“Yes. Having to make hard choices and decisions, being the one everyone turns to for counsel, needing to project confidence at all times, even when I’m devoured by doubts…”

Her paw went to massage Jackson’s nape.

“Only I can’t quit. Not when I am needed, and certainly not when my successor may well be my sister.”

He felt her body tense up against his, and lifted his head to kiss her. She responded to the kiss, first softly, then passionately. Sensing a very familiar eagerness in her, his hands moved to the sides of her bust, seeking to remove her top. As they took to undressing one another, he leaned down and whispered in her ear:

“I hope the war’s over too. I can’t wait for you to stop taking bittermoon juice.”

She smiled in earnest, then pushed him down on her cot and sat astride him, her paws running over his abs. Seeing her tail wag, Jackson decided to grab it by its base. He meant the gesture to be playful, but Alizana gasping as her eyes and her facial lines lit up made him realize she took it in a different way. She smirked at him, her lupine ears lowering to the sides like they often did when she was about to… make her move.

Soon, both of them were focused on the moment, freed from having to think about the future, if only for a little while.

The calm that ruled over the Vertrisian forest over the next three months was very slightly boring, at least to Jackson. It was a good kind of boredom, however, even though he had always believed there was no such thing. For instance, the war councils became much rarer; they only had one during those three months, and it wasn’t particularly interesting or animated. But this was good, because it meant there were no battles to plan, no enemy action to prepare for, and no future losses to grieve. Neasa wasn’t even present for this one: her tribe had sent a different war chief for the very first time. Evidently, she too had felt that the council would be boring.

Simple. Quiet. Peaceful. Those three words were the only ones Jackson could come up to describe those days. They were divided between meals, chores, and games. A few times, he entertained the idea of travelling, possibly to Atvello, if only for the sake of changing pace. But eventually he would get caught up in his daily routine and forget about it. Life was good. So good, in fact, he found himself truly believing this could last.

He was wrong. One summer morning, he was woken up, not by the birds singing in the trees above, or by the Nehan going about their activities around the camp, but by Alizana shaking him.

“Come on, wake up!” he said. “We need to go.”

“Wassappening?” Jackson said.

Opening his eyes, he saw that the sun was already high up in the sky. Whoa. I must have stayed up very late last night. What was I doing? Oh yeah. Drinking and stargazing. Outside, everybody was already out and about. In fact, things were more active than usual.

“We need to go,” Alizana said again. “Koval is saddling up the horses. I let you sleep as much as I could, but if we don’t leave now, we’ll arrive too late, and they’ll have to delay the council.”

“Council? What council?”

“The war council. Aleo has called for one. She didn’t say why, only that it was urgent. Sathariel is already there.”

Getting up and ready as fast as his hangover allowed him, Jackson asked Alizana many questions, but she didn’t know much about what was happening. Something to do with the Empire, she said. Something bad. Indeed, there was a palpable tension in the atmosphere again, similar to the one before the battle of Baluq. Jackson got on Florid with Koval’s help. He had always hated riding while hungover; the last time he had tried, he had ended up vomiting on his saddle. The Southrons had developed several cures against this common ailment, but much like the hangover cures back on Earth, they didn’t really work.

The Mieto camp was located north of the Neha camp, close to the northwest edge of the Vertrisia forest. It was built atop and around a very large rocky hill, at the summit of which an old, twisted oak tree was growing, overlooking the camp. The war council was to take place in a hut built under the shade of that oak tree. More than half of the war chiefs were already there when Alizana and Jackson arrived. The others arrived over the course of the afternoon. Neasa was among the last to arrive, along with Tanli, Culli, and Narunu, the new war chief of the Tulu tribe. Mikkon was accompanying her, looking a little less wretched than usual: he was just as gaunt and quiet as always, but there were some colors on his face, and he seemed to have taken a bath. He appeared a lot less tense than usual, as well, possibly because Neasa seemed calm. Actually, she seemed more than calm, Jackson decided as he looked at her. She was smiling, and striding with quiet confidence.

Aleo was waiting at the council table, sitting with one knee up, her paw playing with some kind of pendant with a carved wood piece. Once everyone was seated, she slapped the pendant on the table, and addressed her peers:

“Thank you all for coming. I apologize for the short notice, and for telling you so little.”

“What is going on?” Dalli said. “Is it the Empire? Are we under attack?”

“It is the Empire. But they were under attack. I’ve just heard from Sathariel’s spies and my scouts in the march of Sensuth -that is, the county of Sensuth, since his ruler has bent the knee to the Emperor- to the north, not too far from Vertrisia.”

“Under attack?” Lanu said. “Has the Hexacracy broken its treaty?”

“Not the Hexacracy, no,” Aleo said, her voice calm, but her eyes betraying a contained anger. “A village in Sensuth called Heartion has been attacked during the night, a few days ago. A band of warriors has infiltrated the city, killing the sentries and taking the villagers unaware. According to my hunters, the attack has been especially brutal. Men, women, and even children have been slaughtered. The town hall and the granaries have been sacked. And finally, the temple was burned.”

There was some jabber around the table.

“Who was it? Bandits? Deserters?” Reele, war chief of the Kele tribe, asked. At fifty-four years old, she was among the oldest war chiefs.

“The Imperials seem to believe it was something much worse. The attackers, they say, were both strong, brutal, and cruel. Some of the bodies seemed to have been butchered by wild animals.”

The mood changed right as that last sentence was spoken. Nearly everyone around the table turned to Neasa. Anger, stupefaction, and horror could all be read on the war chiefs’ expressions. Alizana in particular looked aghast. As to Neasa herself, she merely frowned; there was no trace left of the smile and the confidence she showed earlier.

“Neasa… You didn’t,” Reele said through clenched fangs.

“What? Of course I didn’t!” Neasa retorted.

“You swore to us, Neasa!” Aleo said, her voice quivering as she made obvious efforts not to lose control over herself. “You swore to us you would not attack the Empire. You stood before us, you looked into our eyes, and you swore on your ancestors!”

“And I meant it,” Neasa said, her eyes glaring. “I didn’t attack that place. I didn’t touch a single hair off the head of any of these fucking Imperials. I’ll swear to it before you, before any of my sisters, on my own mother’s grave.”

“Only goes to show how little you value your oaths,” a war chief said.

“Who said that?” Neasa said.

“We know it was you!” another war chief, Linini of the Rini tribe, said. “You kept talking about how we needed to strike the Empire first, and not wait for them to make their move. Strike now, you said, as hard as possible, and the Imperials will back off.”

“Well, they are not backing off,” Sathariel said, leaning on the table. “I haven’t heard back from all of my spies, as of yet, but from the initial reports, the Imperials are… Well, ‘angry’ doesn’t begin to describe it. Aside from the cruelty of the act and the fact that it was unprovoked, we have defiled one of their places of worship, and also we have gone back on our word.”

Someone scoffed; it was Culli. “Because Imperials never break their promises. And Inquisitors would never think of defiling the places of worship of other religions.”

“This is not the time for that, Culli,” Aleo said.

“How could you do this, Neasa?” Linini said. “Do you not realize what this means for us?”

“Damnit, I didn’t do this!” Neasa said vehemently, her fist slamming the table.

“Who else could it have been?” someone said.

“How would I know? Bandits, perhaps. Hexacrats left behind looking for some revenge. Could be the Imperials themselves, trying to frame me!”

One of the war chiefs let out a mocking laughter, further incensing Neasa. Jackson was surprised by how the vast majority of war chiefs were against her. Although it seemed a portion of those war chiefs were more angered that she had broken her oath to them than by the massacre itself.

“Prove to us it wasn’t you,” Narunu said. Jackson was surprised to hear how guttural her voice sounded. It might have to do with the round scar on her neck, almost dead center. Her nom de guerre was Swallows-the-Spears, and Jackson had a good idea why.

“I have nothing to fucking prove,” Neasa retorted. “You are the ones accusing me, let’s see you prove it!”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” Aleo said. “Let us question your tribemates individually, and search through your camp. You haven’t gone on a raid in over a month, there should be no evidence of violence. No loot, no wounds, no trophies. Same for the Nali tribe, in case they were party to that.”

“Are you joking?” Culli spat out. “We’ll never let our sisters, our own tribemates, suffer such an indignity!”

“Why not?” Narunu said. “Do you have something to hide as well?”

“Our sisters have rights,” another war chief said. It was Tuelo, of the Rano tribe. Jackson remembered her: she had sided with Neasa several times in the past, but had almost as often voted against her. “Rifling through their belongings, questioning them like they’re the enemy… This is the sort of thing the Hexacracy used to do.”

“If we were behind that attack,” Neasa said, “do you truly believe we would have been stupid enough to keep proof of what we have done? In our own camps, no less?”

“Certainly,” Reele answered. “You would have kept a damn trophy, as always. Maybe also a slave or two. Your ego would have made you.”

This made Neasa explode. “I will not be spoken to this way! After everything I’ve done for my sistren, after all the victories I brought, after all the sacrifices I made, I will be given the respect I deserve!”

“This is the respect you deserve, you fucking murderer,” Reele retorted, baring her fangs. “My daughter was serving in your corps at the Broken Teeth. She looked up to you; she even wanted to join your tribe. And you fucking sacrificed her so you could be the one who killed Yerleg. That’s all that matters to you. Not your sisters, not your tribe: your own thrice-damned glory!”

“Please! Let’s not get our personal griev-” Alizana intervened, but too late.

Letting her anger explode, Neasa threw a left hook at Reele, which she managed to block, only to respond with a jab. Two other war chiefs intervened to try and disrupt the ensuing fight, but one of them ended up being elbowed in the face by accident. It took several minutes and four people to finally separate them. After that, Reele wordlessly stomped out of the council, and was replaced by one of her tribemates.

As the council was about to resume, Alizana rapped on the table to get everyone’s attention.

“Neasa’s guilt in this is not the object of this council,” she said.

“I’m not-” Neasa began to say, but her sister went on.

“Sathariel has said it: the Imperials are mad with anger. This means that what we were afraid of may well become reality: we are on the verge of war with the Eastern Empire.”

Reactions to that were varied. Most war chiefs seemed apprehensive, some were dismayed, and a few took it in stride. Culli, however, did not react in any discernible way. As if she was expecting that, Jackson thought.

“Maybe instead of revenge, they’ll accept repayment,” Tuelo suggested.

“Repayment?” Neasa said. “For something we didn’t do?”

“The Empire thinks we did it,” Sathariel said. “That’s all that matters… Unfortunately.”

“It’ll take a lot of money to make up for something like that,” Jackson said.

“And even if we had enough coin -and we most certainly don’t-, it’s not gold the Empire wants,” Alizana pointed out. “Only blood will repay blood, I suspect.”

“Then I say let’s give them Neasa’s head,” Najira of the Maja tribe said. “If it spares us a war and gives them some justice…!”

The suggestion immediately started a furious argument. Quite a few war chiefs supported it; at least one was in favor specifically to get rid of Neasa (those were the war chief’s own words). But there was strong opposition, as well. Even some who personally didn’t like Neasa rebuked Najira, some because they liked the Empire even less, and some because they considered the very notion of selling one of their own sisters -a chieftain, no less- to be contemptuous. In addition, someone argued that they couldn’t be certain it would be enough to quell the Empire’s thirst for revenge. What if they betrayed one of their own, only to face war with the Empire anyway?

 Eventually, Aleo brought back the calm by rapping on the table, and demanded a vote. Several hands raised in favor of the motion, including Jackson’s and Sathariel’s, but not Alizana’s.

“Come on, Liz,” Jackson whispered to her. “This is exactly what we need.”

“Absolutely not,” she whispered back. “I’ll not betray any of my people, let alone my own sister.”

“If it was your head on the block, her paw would be high in the air right now.”

But once again, there was no talking her away from her hard-held principles. Sighing, Jackson counted the votes: barely a third. Then came the nays, and over half of the war chiefs raised their paws. Jackson was none too surprised to count Alizana among them.

“The motion is rejected,” Aleo said.

“Well then, we should still try to settle things peacefully with the Empire,” Tuelo said. “Send them Mad Jack again, he seems to know how to speak to the Emperor.”

“It’s worth a try, at least,” Jackson said.

That particular proposal passed, but only just. Jackson could tell there was a lot of skepticism in the assembly; few seemed to believe the Empire could be talked away from the warpath. He silently agreed, but as said, he had to try.

The council went on for a little while. Few more solutions were offered. The debate on Neasa’s guilt over the events at Heartion was not brought up again, no doubt to avoid another brawl, but it was evident few believed she was innocent.

“What do you think?” Jackson mentally asked Byron.

“Well, it’s hard to tell, but…” the veteran said. He tutted. “D’you know, I actually believe she had nothing to do with that.”

“Wait, seriously? This has got her name all over it.”

“She certainly is an ideal suspect. This kind of thing fits her MO perfectly, and she has previously made explicit threats against the Empire. Plus, with her behavior today, she has not exactly endeared herself to her peers.”

“But…”

“But think about it. Think of all of her actions in the past. The massacre at Polran Keep, the villages she’s sacked… As she denied any of them?”

“You kidding? She bragged about them. You almost couldn’t get her to shut up.” Jackson blinked. “Oh…”

“That’s right. This would be the first time she protested her innocence over something she did.”

“I mean, I guess, but it’s also the first time she violated a promise she made to her sisters. Could be that’s why she’s denying the whole thing. Or it could be that she had Culli and her tribe do it. You know, plausible deniability: she actually didn’t do it.”

“Maybe so,” Byron sighed. “Unfortunately, there’s a good chance we’ll never know for sure. Truth is the first casualty of war, they say.”

The talks around the table were petering out, and the first signs of tiredness appeared on the war chiefs’ faces and in their voices. Alizana recognized this, and concluded the meeting:

“I don’t think we’ll achieve more today. Go back to your tribes. Raise your warriors, and resume their training. Send your scouts out, and share their reports. Mind the watch at the edges of the forest. It may not be long before we are at war once more.”

The warning caused a visible chill across the room. Not a word was spoken by the war chiefs as they left. Even Neasa and Culli were silent; the former still looked angry, and the second haughty and cold. Given the late hour, those who lived far away were invited to stay overnight at the Mieto camp. This included Neasa and her party.

Alizana and Jackson bid Aleo goodbye, and left her alone in the tent. As they walked down the hill, they noticed Neasa waiting there, arms crossed, lips pursed.

“I wish to talk,” she said to her sister.

“I don’t,” Alizana simply retorted.

Neasa clicked her tongue in frustration, glanced at Jackson, then tried speaking to her sister again, this time in that Hellian dialect that was unique to the Hellhounds. Jackson’s understanding of it was still limited, and in addition Neasa spoke fast and low. He understood the words “me” and the words used to denote a negation. This was more denial, probably. As to Alizana, her responses were short, even curt. Eventually, the latter cut the argument short by retorting in Imperial:

“I don’t care, Neasa! Even if you are not guilty of that particular atrocity, we both know it was only a matter of time before you did something like that. If what you want is my support, you can’t have it. And if it’s my forgiveness, you don’t deserve it!”

Alizana then turned on her heels and stomped off, leaving Neasa standing there, her lupine ears lowered, her mouth contorted in a rictus that showed her fangs, the hairs of her fur raised, and her paws balled into fists. By reflex, Jackson put his hand on the handle of his pistol. Around them, about a dozen people were watching them, having clearly heard the last part of that dispute; Mikkon was among them. Neasa released a low, incoherent, nearly beast-like growl, then stomped off as well. She headed straight towards Mikkon, who paled, his eyes growing wide. Without stopping her stride, she grabbed him by the shirt, and dragged him to the hut she was offered for the night. The curtain door closed, hiding them from sight, and sending a terrible coldness down Jackson’s throat. He observed the hut’s door for a moment, then walked towards it.

“Don’t do this,” Byron said. “I know what you’re thinking, but this will not make anything better.”

“I don’t care,” Jackson retorted, reaching for his gun and accelerating his pace.

“Sire, what’s going on?” Koval said, following him.

Without answering, he removed the pistol from its holster, and pushed the curtain door away, so briskly he partly ripped it off. Mikkon was laying on his back, his hands gripping the wooden floor, heaving in quiet terror. A bit of blood dripped from his busted lower lip, and a hematoma was growing on his cheek. His shirt had been torn off. Neasa was kneeling on top of him, a paw balling his hair, the other raised threateningly; her hide trousers were gone. Jackson felt almost violently sick all of a sudden.

“Get the fuck away from him,” Jackson said, placing both hands on his pistol’s handle, but not raising it just yet.

“Leave,” Neasa spat back. “This is not your concern.”

“The hell it isn’t! Get off him, now!”

Neasa’s eyes narrowed into slits as she gazed down at his gun. Jackson saw the muscles in her legs tense up, and her paws turn into fists again, but he reacted a moment too late. One second later, his back slammed against one of the hut’s support beams, a bad pain twisting his plexus, where Neasa’s fist had struck. She grabbed the wrist of his armed hand, then twisted it until Jackson dropped the pistol with a strangled scream. Then, she pulled on the wrist, her claws digging into the skin and piercing it, and threw him down on the floor. Jackson scrambled to get back on his feet, but Neasa was on him before he could. Her fist struck him again, this time on the side of his head, and Jackson saw colors.

“Arrogant cunt!” he heard Neasa shout at him through the ringing in his ears. “Imperial piece of shit!”

She punched him again, in the corner of his mouth. and again on his nose. Jackson sensed a sharp pain, followed by a flow of some warm liquid over his lips, and knew his nose was broken. He fell to the floor. Neasa screamed at him some more, becoming more incoherent with every curse. Jackson’s senses dulled as the pain seemed to overtake every part of his body. His vision blurred, the ringing deafened every sound. Neasa wrapped her paws around his neck, and began squeezing hard enough to cut off his air intake; her claws pierced his skin in several places. Jackson gathered enough strength to punch her in the face, but she barely even flinched. She was still screaming at him, spit dripping from her mouth on to him, but he could no longer hear her. His consciousness began to fade as he gasped for air. His hand roamed the floor, seeking for anything he might use as a weapon, to no avail.

Suddenly, Jackson saw something move fast over Neasa’s head. There was a crashing sound, and he felt Neasa’s paws release his throat. Coughing and sputtering, he turned on his stomach and raised on his elbows. His senses came back to him quickly, spurred on by adrenaline. He heard shouting. Two voices. The other was Alizana’s. He turned to them.

Alizana had grabbed her sister, and dragged her out of the hut. Every of her facial traits was contorted in rage, and her eyes were so fiery they looked like they could set people ablaze. Jackson had never seen her lover quite as angry, not even in battle. Koval was standing next to her, holding in hands the remains of a chair. Apparently, the squire had broken it over Neasa’s head.

“All of you!” Neasa was screaming, still incoherent. “Every last one of you!”

Her sister said something in Hellian that sounded like “calm down” or “back off”. Either way, Neasa reacted with a scream of rage. She struck with her open paw at Alizana’s forearm, which she had quickly raised in defense. At first, Jackson thought she had slapped her sister. But then, he saw three long, red, parallel lines on Alizana’s forearm. Neasa saw them too, and her wrathful expression almost instantaneously turned into one of stupefaction. It was as if the blood of her sister, flowing from her wounds and staining Neasa’s claws, had brought her back to clarity. She stared at her soiled claws, then glanced at the people who had gathered around, brought on by the commotion. She looked in her sisters’ eyes, and saw the horror, the contempt, the accusation. All was silent and frozen for a long moment.

Then, Neasa turned on her heels, and ran off, soon disappearing among the trees. Jackson walked -stumbled, rather- towards Alizana, his head feeling like a drum kit after a concert.

“You’re bleeding,” he said with a nasal voice, grabbing his handkerchief and pressing it on her forearm.

“So are you,” she said, gesturing at his nose.

Jackson wiped the underneath of his nose. Indeed, a good quantity of blood was dripping from both of his nostrils, over his lips and down to his chin. He was so out of it he had barely noticed. Suddenly feeling groggy, he took a knee, then sat on the ground. Koval retrieved a long strip of cloth from his rucksack, and wrapped it around Alizana’s wound. Then, he went to fetch some plants from the camp’s storage hut, which he used to make a paste and stick into Jackson’s nostrils. The smell was irritating, and the mixture itself uncomfortable, but it stopped the bleeding completely. Finally, the squire tended to the puncture wounds around his neck with more of that mixture. Thankfully, those wounds were small and not very deep.

“Thanks for the save, kid,” Jackson said, his voice almost comically nasal.

“Think nothing of it, sire.”

“It’s not nothing. You faced that crazy bitch to face me, and she’s about twice the size of you and got big-ass claws. That’s really brave.”

Koval just shook his head, blushing a little.

“Your wounds look rather bad, sire,” he said, looking him over, “but it could be worse. The nose is certainly broken, but I think your jaw is going to be fine.”

It sure doesn’t feel fine.

“You have lost a tooth, however.”

Jackson ran his tongue over his lower jaw, and indeed felt a gap on the right side, near the back.

“Ah, shit. Hey, can you go see if they have some dried myuca, kid?” he asked. “I don’t think I’m gonna have a good night without some painkill-.”

His sentence ended in a groan, as the pain in his jaw flared. Koval nodded, and went away. Alizana gently held up his chin, looking him over in turn, her eyes filled with worry, her mouth slanted.

“I thought she was going to kill you,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Her? Please,” he said. He had to speak low and slowly so the pain wouldn’t flare up again. “I was just letting her believe she was winning.”

Alizana slapped him lightly on the shoulder. Clearly, this was not the moment for levity.

“It was really dangerous, what you did,” she said. “Both you and Koval.”

“I-I know. But I had to. And I guess I taught the kid well.”

She sighed. “I know you had to. You always have to be the hero, even if it puts you in harm’s way.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Alizana hugged him. He returned the hug, licking some of the blood off his lips, and swallowing some of the saliva that was filling his mouth. Ugh. His throat hurt as well, and it especially ached when he swallowed. Couldn’t that bitch have punched me in the stomach instead?

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, running his fingers over her bandage.

“She cut me pretty deep, but I’ll heal. Are you going to be okay?”

“Maybe… If Enita’s still in Vertrisia.”

“She left for Tinaun this morning. She won’t be back for at least a week.”

Jackson groaned. “Then I guess the next few days won’t be a party.” Glancing at the treeline where Neasa had run away to, he asked: “What’s gonna happen to your sister?”

“Right now, I don’t give a damn what’s going to happen to her,” Alizana growled. Ending the hug, she took a deep breath and said in a more normal voice: “I don’t think we should exile her.”

“Why not? I’m sure we could get the chieftains to vote for that. Using her claws against her own sister, that’s a pretty big deal.”

“I know, but…” She sighed and pinched her nose. “As much as it pains me to say it, we still need her. Even more so now.”

“Ugh, fine. But once the war’s over, we’re definitely kicking her out.”

Jackson spotted Mikkon leaving the hut. He was clutching the remains of his shirt, and he was walking with a limp. What hurt Jackson the most looking at the poor boy, beyond the bruises and the cuts, was the blank look in his eyes. It was like what was going to happen to him was nothing he hadn’t been through before. Exile might be too nice, Jackson thought darkly.

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