The Pulver Chronicles – 45. Killing In The Name Of

The dog barked, but refrained from jumping. The training was working, Duke Evrart thought as he dangled the piece of meat above his head again, giving it a jiggle. The dog whined, then barked again.

“Beg, Darrel,” the Duke said.

Instead, the dog tapped his feet on the grassy ground like it was on fire.

“Beg.”

With another whine, Darrel sat down. Not good enough, the Duke decided. He dangled the meat once more, and this time Darrel raised his front legs. Evrart nodded, and let him have the meat. The dog caught it in his mouth and devoured it with great appetite. Evrart smiled, pushing his long auburn hair behind his ears; he did not like having them in his face, especially not since they had started greying, but neither did he like binding them. On the Duke’s command, he then ran off to join the other dogs on the other side of the courtyard, where one of the Duke’s squires was tending to them, bathing them and cutting their hair.

Yes, Evrart thought, the training was working. That runt was still a pup, but he was well on his way to become a strong part of the Duke’s pack. He smiled as he thought of his pack, most of which was still in Brightstone. Nineteen beautiful purebreds, Narrian Shepherds for the most part, but also two Hastadish Sheepdogs and one Seawatch Collie, all of them diligently trained for hunting. Obviously, it hadn’t been feasible to bring them all with him as he marched south, so he had taken only his eight favorites, and left the rest in his home. He had taken Darrel as well, so as to finish training him properly. The Divine knew Duke Evrart couldn’t count on his younger son Enry to train him; the boy was still too soft, too gentle for such tasks. He had yet to kill anything when his father took him hunting.

Ah, hunting!… The Duke passed a hand over his beard as he remembered the last time he had gone on a hunt. It was years ago now, a month before the war. He and both of his sons had gone fox hunting. The Duke had killed one, but his elder son Evrett had gotten two, earning him his father’s respect as well as the lion’s share at dinner. His youngest, of course, had caught nothing; on no less than two occasions, the clumsy fool had scared away his prey.

The castle’s back door opened, and someone entered the courtyard, putting an end to Duke Evrart’s reminiscence. With a sigh of discontent, he turned to see that it was count Padden Terral. His vassal approached him, and quickly did the Imperial salute, with the proper bow, the auburn braids framing his face dangling as he did.

“My liege, I am back,” Count Padden said with that quivering smile he had on every time he was about to deliver good news.

“So I see,” Evrart said. “How did it go?”

“Just like you said, sire: the lords are outraged, and demand reparation. Count Willborn is the most angry, of course. Those were his land and his subjects.”

“And the Emperor?”

“He’s asking everyone to remain calm, as you predicted. Though he hasn’t said it openly, it is clear he wishes to solve the whole thing through diplomacy.”

Diplomacy with wild beasts! Evrart’s lips pursed with amusement. That popinjay sitting on the throne was even more of a fool than his father, it seemed. At least Helbert knew his own limits, and deferred to his loyal subjects the duties he knew he couldn’t do himself. But not Damian. That young Emperor was resolved to win this war all on his own, with his restrained methods that would take decades. Oh, sure, Damian had managed to get Elyonn killed, but only by pure luck, and at the cost of his own bastard brother’s life. That little ruse of his could have as easily gone wrong. And to think he had involved those… those things that swarmed the Vertrisian forest!… Had he entrusted Evrart with the command of his armies, the Duke would have won the South within a year or two, and the Empire would not have owed that victory to anyone!

By the Divine, he had earned that trust, and not just through the years he had spent in service of Helbert II. He was the head of House Brannon, one of the oldest and most honorable noble houses in the Eastern Empire, with ancestors predating the first Steedian Emperor. It had stood proud throughout the centuries, and helped shape the Empire into what it was today. And in spite of all of this, it seemed this Emperor had decided to deny the Duke the honors he was owed. In fact, he had heard talk that he would not be made lord paramount of the South once the region became Imperial again. This was madness: who more than House Brannon deserved this boon?

“How did the lords react?” Evrart asked, though he knew the answer.

“Not well, sire. There were… disagreements,” Count Padden said. “Nothing rising to the level of disobedience or disrespect, of course, but… ah… our wise Emperor eventually understood that the time for talk had come and gone, along with the lives of over a hundred of his subjects at Heartion. This is a time for action.”

“Good, good.”

Yes, Evrart already knew this would be the answer. This was the result of a lot of hard work, convincing, pressuring, and swaying several noble houses into supporting the Duke’s position on this. By continuously refusing to give House Brannon what it was due, the Emperor had forced his hand, and made it necessary for him to forge a union between lords, in order to wield sufficient influence to make the sovereign see reason.

The taking of Llorysport by Brannon bannermen had of course been a great help, gathering more support for the Duke. And as it had been an important victory for the Empire in its war against the Hexacracy, the Emperor could not condemn it, though he did deplore the loss of hundreds of men, claiming besieging the town would have achieved the same results. Yes, quite a help it had been, but it had not been sufficient. The Emperor had defeated Elyonn and secured a peace agreement with the Hexacracy, and the noble houses had rallied back to him. Suddenly, all were willing to indulge his fantasies of peacefully conquering the South. There was barely even a protest when he mentioned his intention to make that Mad Jack and the leaders of those dogs their vassals! Making inhuman vassals to the Emperor! Such an indignity should have caused a scandal, yet no one dared speak out against the man who had vanquished the Archcommander. Badel Fort, it seemed, was the final nail in Duke Brannon’s plans.

But then, the massacre at Heartion happened, and everything changed again. Dozens of men, women, and children died to unidentified assailants, their bodies massacred, their fields ravaged, their buildings burned, and their temple desecrated. There was no talk of conciliation with the strange insurgent curs and their defiant alliance anymore. Evrart would never say it out loud, but he was thankful for that Neasa bitch. Though she little knew it, she had been very useful to the cause of House Brannon.

“So then, what was decided?” the Duke asked, once again predicting the answer.

“Well, in the first, we will send word to the beasts’ leaders,” Count Padden said, “demanding their submission to the Empire. In the second, we will demand that those… Hellhounds go back to their lands, in the Hexacracy.”

Both demands will be rejected, of course, Duke Evrart thought as he nodded along.

“And then?”

“And, should they refuse, we will gather our armies and… take what is ours. He hasn’t said that part out loud, nor as he told the lords when they should expect to go to battle. This has satisfied most of the lords, but many, starting with Willborn, want to take immediate action. They have agreed to wait, but are not happy about it. Willborn wants the beasts dead, not exiled.”

Excellent. With a confident smile, Duke Evrart headed back inside the castle, his vassal following him. Going up the hallway towards the main room, he was reminded of how much he hated this place. It was cold, windy, and dark. The corridors were too small, the furniture basic and uncomfortable. He even hated its name, Fort Vinera. Vee-ne-rah. What did that word even mean? Evrart had no idea, but had not cared enough to ask anyone. Some Southron name, born of the corruption of Imperial culture by foreign ones.

By the Divine, he missed Brightstone! Thankfully, he would not have to stay here much longer. A few weeks, maybe a couple of months. He would certainly be out of here before the coldest months of winter. The Steelfort, traditional seat of power of the lord paramount of the South, was also not the most comfortable, but it could become great once upgraded and expanded. Certainly, House Brannon could afford that, especially with the riches of the South at its command.

Sir Dennel Malcean was seated behind the main room’s large table, drinking what was probably his third glass of white wine -and the sun had yet to reach its zenith. Duke Evrart had taken a liking to Dennel from the very first time he had laid eyes on his square face, with his long, dirty blond hair, his thick eyebrows, his fleshy nose, and the mess that was his goatee. The man was the younger brother of Alster, head of House Malcean and another of the Duke’s vassals. At nearly forty years of age, he had been in the service of Duke Evrart for twenty years. The Duke still remembered the day he had knighted him. Dennel had shown up drunk to the -thankfully small- ceremony; apparently, his nerves had needed some liquid calming. His fondness for alcohol, especially white wines, had only increased ever since that day. That aspect of his personality had caused him no small amount of trouble in the past, and hadn’t done much to endear him with his fellow knights, but Duke Evrart did not mind a man with a vice -on the contrary. And, after all, the numerous ways he had served the Duke more than made up for his regular intoxications. Indeed, for all his faults, the knight had proved a steadfast servant, always accomplishing the tasks his liege confided him with, even the most… unpalatable ones; in fact, he seemed to prefer those.

Seeing the Duke coming, Sir Dennel stood up, somewhat clumsily, and saluted.

“Good day to you, my liege,” he said. Seeing that Padden was accompanying him, he asked: “Are we…?”

“Oh yes, my friend,” Duke Evrart said. “We are going to war.”

The knight joined his hands with a clap, his face lighting up.

“When will the troops be ready?” the Duke inquired.

“By next week, sire. Sir Enran is seeing to it.”

“Good. You are to leave as soon as possible. You know what to do; I want these beasts mad with anger.”

Sir Dennel nodded, saluted again, finished his cup, and left. The Duke turned to Count Padden.

“You know which lords are the most angry about the situation. Contact them discreetly, let them know House Brannon understands their wrath and their need for justice. Make it clear, without saying anything explicit, that we will support them should they decide to seek reparations on their own.”

The Count said “yes, sire”, and excused himself as well, leaving Duke Evrart alone. He sat at the table, and ordered a servant to tell the kitchen to get started on his lunch. He ordered two desserts instead of one: today was a day of celebration. Two of his dogs were let in during his meal. He always ate in the company of some of his dogs, usually the ones he had deemed most worthy. Today, it was Wilian and Emilan, his oldest Narrian Shepherds, born of the same litter. Without the collars, the Duke had trouble telling them apart: they had the same grey-black fur, the same size, the same shape of the snout, the same eyes… and the same appetite for the Duke’s leftovers.

It was all coming together, he thought with great satisfaction as he bit into his meat -a pork’s loin steak, fried in butter. The noble houses of the Empire were clamoring for war. Seeing that the Duke wanted it too while the Emperor only reluctantly agreed to it, the houses would flock to House Brannon. In addition, Sir Dennel would rouse the beasts and their allies, ensuring that war would happen, sooner rather than later. And when it would, House Brannon would already have gathered its bannermen. Thus, the Emperor would have no choice but to use them as the bulk of his troops. Much of the glory of the incoming victory would go to House Brannon, as it should.

Yes. The plan was now in motion, and not even the Emperor could stop it.

Each passing day reinforced the Duke’s confidence that everything was going as he had expected. Count Padden discreetly toured the nobles in the South, gathering a lot of support. Sir Enran was seeing to the troops, getting them battle-ready; morale was good, and the men were eager for a fight. And Sir Dennel was working to ensure there would be a fight: over the next couple of weeks, several Allied villages were targeted by quick attacks by strange riders wearing the colors of the Hexacracy. It would establish plausible deniability, but the beasts would likely not be fooled, and blame the Empire, and eliminate any possibility of a diplomatic resolution. Furthermore, the beasts would be angered enough to lash out at the opportunity they saw to hurt the Empire. And they would soon have such an opportunity.

Then, one day near the end of summer, the Emperor called his generals and lords once again, to meet in the Steelfort. Duke Evrart took no hurry journeying there, arriving noticeably later than his peers; the Emperor had demanded for the gathering to take place in the morning; Evrart arrived a little after noon. In the camp surrounding the castle, he saw the banners of many Houses: Battran, Lenamien, Verdan, Gellett… Good, good, he thought. Those were for the most part the Houses Count Padden had prospected.

Everybody had already gathered in the meeting room when the Duke entered. Evidently, all had been waiting for some time. Evrart could tell from the expression of quiet annoyance on the Emperor’s face, though he did his best to hide it. The man had always been very peculiar about punctuality, to the point where it became an obsession, and it amused Evrart to defy him on this. Damian would never demand retribution from a powerful House over something so small, as it would make it seem petty to the other lords.

“Thank you for heeding my summons,” the Emperor told the assembly. “We are here to discuss the situation with the Southern Alliance.”

Evrart rolled his eyes. To call them by that name was really giving them too much credit, like they were an actual polity instead of a smattering of villages and barbaric beasts living in the wild.

“We have received a response from the chieftains of the Hellhound tribes. Unfortunately, our demands have been rejected. They will not deliver chieftain Neasa to us, so that she could be made to answer for her crimes.”

There was a murmur among the lords, then one of them said loudly:

“They compound their crime by protecting the criminal! Have they truly no shame?”

Duke Evrart shot an amused glance at Count Artor Willborn. The lord was sitting two seats away from the Emperor, one fist on the table, his large face showing nothing but contempt. Evrart noticed he was now wearing his black hair in the style of the Southron nobility: shorter, and tied with a simple knot at the back of the head. Furthermore, he had shaved his beard completely. While it uncovered the red spots on his cheeks and around his temples, as well as revealed his lack of chin, it did make him look like a true Southron lord.

“They have also rejected any demands of retribution for the lives taken and the properties destroyed for the same reasons,” the Emperor went on. “In fact, they hold us responsible for a series of attacks on their villages some time ago.”

“Didn’t the witness describe horsemen dressed in Hexacrat armor, my Emperor?” Duke Andran Gellet said. “I remember one of them describing the Hexacracy’s six colors on a tabard.”

“According to the chieftains, the last deserters have been killed or expelled from their lands months before. They assert that those attacks were in fact Imperials seeking retaliation for Heartion.”

“If so, one can hardly blame them,” Duke Evrart softly said.

Evrart expected the Emperor to retort something. Sadly, he simply ignored him and continued.

“As a consequence, the agreement of non-aggression I signed with Sir Jackson Pulver is now void.” His lips twisted for a moment.

“Good. When do we march against the Hellhounds?” Count Willborn said.

“I must reiterate that war is not the best course of action,” the Emperor said.

“How is that?” Willborn retorted. “My Emperor, these- these creatures have slaughtered my subjects. If they didn’t want war, they shouldn’t have started one!”

“Here, here,” Evrart said.

“We’ll not be going to war only against the Hellhounds, but also against their Alliance,” the Emperor said. “Villages and towns, the very same we are working to see come back to the Empire. Our own people. For some of you, your future subjects.”

“Our subjects indeed, my liege,” Willborn said. “Should they decide to take arms against us, then they are guilty of treason, and deserve whatever happens to them.”

A couple of nobles nodded.

“While I do not disagree, I will state again that this conflict can be resolved without more military action,” the Emperor said. “Our goal here is to recover the South, not to burn it. Furthermore, our work to regain the loyalty of the marches means the Hellhounds will eventually have to fight alone.”

“I’m sorry, my Emperor, but how long will that take?” Gellett said. “We have been at war for years now. You have achieved a quick victory against the Archdemons, and we are all thankful to you for this, but we are eager to finish our business in the South and to go back to our fiefs and our people. Chipping away at this Alliance village by village could keep us here for years.”

“He’s right, my Emperor,” Evrart said. “Let us meet these beasts in battle. Their armies are… what? Two thousand people strong? Less than that, probably. One single battle is all it will take to end them. After that, their little Alliance will be over.”

“Indeed,” Count Arri Battran said. As usual, his participation in the discussion was very limited; Evrart wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t utter another word for the rest of the gathering.

The Emperor kept quiet for a while, his gaze hardening as he leaned back against this chair. Duke Evrart observed him, scratching his beard and struggling to hide his smile. What are you going to decide, Damian? he thought. Will you insist on solving this problem your way? I hope you will. Then, you will see your lords come to my side in response, and my power grow at the expense of your own. I offer them revenge and a quick victory, while you offer them nothing, other perhaps than the possibility of a weak victory at some later date. Yes, do go ahead and assert your authority. I look forward to humbling you.

“Very well, then,” the Emperor said, his voice strained as if he had drunk something terribly sour. “Gather your bannermen and prepare your armies. As soon as we are able, we shall march against the Hellhounds.”

Another murmur ran around the table. Willborn smiled, and punched the table with enthusiasm. Evrart’s eyebrows went up, forming an upside down V. That development was a little disappointing, in a way. Of course, it was what he wanted -what he would have gotten anyway sooner or later-, but still, he was hoping to teach that young Emperor a lesson about power. Ah, well. Now, moving on to the matter of-

“We need to move before winter,” the Emperor said, interrupting his thoughts. “Ideally, before the heavy rains of autumn. I understand House Brannon’s bannermen are already being gathered. Do you believe they’ll be battle-ready within a fortnight, Duke Evrart?”

“Ah… Yes, my liege, almost certainly,” Evrart answered, a little surprised. Apparently, he wouldn’t need to brooch the subject: the Emperor had been so kind as to bring it to the table himself.

“Good. What of your bannermen, Duke Dakey? Your heavy cavalry, in particular.”

“It will take some time to gather them, my liege,” the head of House Lenamien said. “They are spread out across the South, working to restore peace, as you know.”

“That is unfortunate. Count Arri?”

“Maybe a month, my liege,” Count Arri said. “We’ve had losses.”

The other lords could bring some troops, but it soon became evident that only House Brannon could field a sufficient number of soldiers in time.

“In this case, we shall require that your men make up most of the army in the incoming battle, Duke Evrart,” the Emperor said.

Evrart had to give to the Emperor, he knew how to disguise the anger in his voice.

“My men and I are ready to serve the Empire, my liege,” he said.

“Your presence will not be necessary. Sir Roone can lead your men in battle.”

There he goes again, trying to deny me the glory I am owed. I think not. 

“With respect, my liege, it is my duty as Duke to lead mine own men. Furthermore, they are used to my command. They will be more efficient if I am in charge.”

A noticeable shade of reluctance veiled the Emperor’s tone as he said: “As you prefer, Duke Evrart. Do take care not to endanger yourself. I do not need to lose another of my vassals in this war.”

Evrart duly nodded, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, I’m sure you’re quite concerned for me, Emperor. The other vassal the Emperor was alluding to was Count Renaldo Lunedi, a Narran nobleman who led a cavalry charge against the Gold and Crimson Legion at the battle of Lilac Vale. While the charge succeeded in turning the tide of the battle, it cost Lunedi his life, a lucky spearman having pierced the side of his torso. But then again, Count Lunedi was a fool, Evrart had always thought so. His absolute devotion to the Emperor was proof of that.

Oh, but the Emperor did not need to worry. Evrart had no intention of dying. On the contrary, he would live a long time to savor his victory.

The lords went on to discuss the rough outlines of the battle’s strategy; it would be further refined later. The army would march towards the western portion of the Vertrisian Forest from the north, as it was the least hilly part of Vertrisia and thus the most auspicious for battle deployment. The Imperial forces would be composed mostly of heavy infantry, due partly to the little availability of cavalry, and partly because the terrain was still too hilly for it. The Hellhound armies were themselves devoid of heavy cavalry, so this would not be a major issue.

In total, three thousand and two hundred soldiers would be gathered for the battle, including a little over twelve hundred bannermen from House Brannon and its vassals. The rest were mostly the Emperor’s own men, plus a couple hundreds from other Houses, mostly House Willborn.

The Emperor dismissed the lords, in an even more rushed manner than usual. Evrart stayed in the Steelfort a little longer to exchange pleasantries with his peers. Some had doubts about the upcoming battle; some even expressed worry. The Duke reassured the former and assuaged the latter. The beasts, he told everyone, would only raise half as many warriors. In addition, their forces had been drained by years of war and by many losses, meanwhile the Duke’s forces were still quite fresh. It would not be an easy battle, he admitted, but with the proper will, it could be won. Even if the Emperor disagreed, Evrart said.

Sir Enran was already pretty much done with his work when Duke Evrart came back to Fort Vinera. The men were ready, their officers prepared, their weapons honed. Sir Dennel came back a few days later along with his men. Though they looked to have had their fill of entertainment, the Duke knew it wouldn’t be long before they craved more action. This was another thing he had come to appreciate in Dennel: his hunger for combat, much like his thirst for wine, was never satisfied for long. The knight would have fought through the coldest Hastadish winter if that was necessary.

Word came from the Emperor a little over a fortnight after the meeting in the Steelfort, carried by a courier. The message, enclosed with the Steedian seal, contained the finer details of the upcoming engagement, including the order of battle. Evrart was glad to see the tactic adopted was almost exactly the one he and the lords had suggested to the Emperor. Maybe he was capable of learning after all.

The Duke and his army left Fort Vinera the next morning, a couple hours after dawn. They travelled southwest with little hurry: they would have to wait for the rest of the troops to join them anyway. Count Willborn and his hundred and fifty men joined them the next day. The lord was pleasant company, though all discussions with him invariably lead to talking about the Hellhounds and what he would do to them once he got his hands on them. Duke Evrart indulged him, of course: now that he had gotten his favor, he didn’t want to lose it. 

A little rain welcomed them when they entered Vertrisia on the third day, which lasted until sundown. The vanguard of the Emperor’s army met with them two days after that, and together they established their camp between three hills, near a river which the locals called the Brehan, some eighty miles away from the Vertrisian forest. The entire region looked even more wild and untamed than Duke Evrart had imagined, based on what he was told. It was naught but empty land for miles in every direction.

But this was good, he decided. A lot of available land to reward his allies with, once his position as lord paramount was secured. The soil looked quite fertile. With some work, this could one day become a most prosperous region. He turned his gaze south at the Vertrisian forest and the Silver Crown that was jutting out of it. Of course, there was likely a wealth of resources in there as well, and not just the wood. Once the beasts swarming it were gone, the forest would have to be surveyed. As to the Elves also living in those woods… Hmph, well, maybe some concessions could be made.

The clouds were low in the sky when the bulk of the Imperial army was spotted by Evrart’s scouts. The Emperor arrived late in the afternoon, three days after the Duke’s army had met the vanguard. The clouds had turned into a light fog. His forces built a separate camp near Duke Evrart’s, on the other side of the river. Usually in such circumstances, decorum would dictate that the vassal would immediately come to his liege, but Evrart awaited until he was formally asked to meet with the Emperor. The command tent was decorated in the Emperor’s usual style: barely at all. There were just enough seats for the people present, with no pillows available. Evrart couldn’t understand why a man of his status never seemed to care much for his comfort, or to impress anyone -not even his vassals. Sometimes, it almost seemed as if he loathed the very idea of spending money. Truly, the man was frustratingly hard to understand, for Evrart. At least his father had an appetite for the finer things in life, making him easy to deal with.

The Emperor was standing at the table when Evrart met with him again, leaned over a few maps; the man loved maps. His squire Wiltan was also present, busy tending to his liege’s armor, fitted on a stand. Evrart saw Sir Rainworth’s shield placed against a chair, but the man himself wasn’t there.

“Our scouts have reported that the Hellhound armies have assembled,” the Emperor said in lieu of greetings. “Sixteen, maybe seventeen hundred warriors, according to their estimates, including Humans, Demons, and Elves. As expected, their leaders are among them once more.”

He placed three wooden figurines on the map, indicating the position of the three armies. They were located further down the river from the Imperial armies, about ten miles from the forest, blocking the easiest way to it. How very kind of them to leave their woods, Evrart thought. Saves us from having to hunt them there.

“We will move again in four days, and meet with them the day after that,” the Emperor said. His finger tapped another part of the march. “Here. Our scouts report that this place should be flat enough to allow us to deploy our troops properly.”

“Why wait four days, my liege?” Evrart said. “My men can be ready to depart tomorrow at dawn.”

Sir Rainworth entered the tent at that moment, carrying a rolled piece of paper which he handed to the Emperor, whispering something in his ear, then took a seat. The Emperor looked over the paper, his face betraying nothing of what he was reading. Good news, bad news, odd news? Evrart couldn’t tell.

“Sir Jackson Pulver and chieftain Alizana have asked to meet with us before battle.”

“If they wish to surrender, it is far too late,” Willborn said.

“That is for me to decide, Count Willborn,” the Emperor said. “I will meet with them tomorrow, and hear what they have to say. In the meantime, you are to hold your positions here. Patrol the area, and post vigils on top of the hills. We are unlikely to be attacked here, but we still must remain cautious.”

Again with caution, Evrart thought. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was afraid of these creatures. Unless it’s this Mad Jack character that is causing this concern in him. If that is the case, my liege, you shouldn’t have made nice with him to begin with.

Glancing at Count Willborn, Evrart could tell the man was seconds away from suggesting the Emperor should take advantage of this meeting to capture or assassinate the Hellhounds’ leaders. He would be wasting his breath, of course. For indeed the Emperor, this honorbound fool, would never seize such an opportunity. That didn’t matter anyway, Evrart decided. He would soon be meeting with these leaders as well… And when he did, he certainly wouldn’t miss his chance.

As announced, the Emperor left camp the next day, along with a small troop, including Sir Rainworth and two other knights of the Silver Steed. The Duke was vaguely worried he might come back having changed his mind about the battle, or perhaps even about the war against the Hellhounds. But when he reappeared two days later, he announced no changes concerning the plans. He looked to be even more standoffish and less talkative than usual, and barely left his tents during the last preparations. No word was spoken of his exchange with Mad Jack and the chieftain. Mildly curious, Evrart tried to learn more from Rainworth, but the knight held on to his oath and kept his mouth shut.

No matter. The battle was coming. The Hellhounds would be defeated, their leaders would be captured or killed, and that would be that.

***

On the fourth day, as planned, the camp was taken down, and the army resumed its march south. Damian rode in silence, not speaking a word from dawn to dusk. Sir Luken, riding beside him, was his usual talkative self, however. Throughout the whole trip, he amused his fellow knights and the other riders with his stories, his japes, and his musings. Few of the people around him noticed the change in the Emperor’s attitude. He wasn’t normally a very talkative man. Those who did notice, his squire and his page, made no mention of it.

People said Damian never smiled. This wasn’t true. He did smile, though admittedly on rare occasions, such as the birth of his children, the day of his crowning, or the knighting of Gawain, and sometimes to the memories of these events -although that last one was unlikely to elicit any smile from him anytime soon now. People said Damian hated small talk. This wasn’t completely true. He had usually little patience for pointless talk, but he enjoyed trading platitudes with his children, especially his very young daughter.

People said Damian hated lying. This… was very true. Few things in this world incensed him more than being lied to, other than being called a liar himself. Damian valued honesty, perhaps more than discipline, competence, and sense of duty. Honesty, he believed, was proof not just of good character, but also in many circumstances of courage. Courage he hadn’t found in many members of his father’s court, who often preferred lies, toadying, and manipulation.

One thing he truly detested, one thing that could make him truly angry, was someone looking him in the eyes and lying to him. He still remembered when his own father had done just that -as he recalled, his dog had died, and his father had told him instead he had run away. It was the first time in his life he had actually shouted at someone.

People said Damian held grudges. He wasn’t sure whether that was true. Not usually. But in this particular case, it most certainly would be.

Someone had lied to him. Someone had looked him in the eyes, and lied. As to who that someone was… Well, that was part of the reason why he had been in a foul mood those last few days.

A couple of days ago, Damian had spoken with the leaders of the Southern Alliance. It was the second time he met with Sir Jackson Pulver, the man also known as Mad Jack. That particular meeting had gone very differently from their previous ones, a couple of years ago. The first time, they had discussed peace. This time, they spoke of war. Sir Jackson was a man he had grown to respect. He was a man fighting for what he believed, who had faced a much stronger enemy for the sake of his people -and won. And now, Damian was to face that man in battle, and likely kill him.

The first part of that meeting had gone just how he had imagined. Neither Sir Jackson nor chieftain Alizana had any desire to surrender, and wouldn’t be convinced otherwise. But the second part went differently from his expectations. Sir Jackson denied the Hellhounds’ involvement in the massacre of Heartion. That in itself hadn’t been surprising; he knew someone like him wouldn’t be involved in such an act. Then, Damian had asked chieftain Alizana if she could swear her sister had nothing to do with it. She couldn’t. Not surprising either.

What was surprising was the intervention of that Demon that had been standing in the back the whole time. He introduced himself as simply Sathariel, with no last name or title, and explained that he had investigated the ruins of Heartion. There wasn’t much left, he admitted, but he had managed to find something. A damaged spur, made out of steel, soiled with mud. It had broken off an armored rider’s sabaton, the Demon had said. But Neasa and her reavers didn’t wear such armors, nor did they ride horses, he had pointed out, and neither did any of the peasants of Heartion.

Damian had retorted that this finding in itself wasn’t much of a proof. It could have been lost by a rider visiting the town before the attack. It could have been retrieved by one of the villagers from a nearby battlefield. It could even have been planted by Neasa and her reavers. Sir Jackson and the Demon were adamant, however, that this was evidence that another party was responsible for the massacre.

The conversation had gotten agitated. Damian had become angry, though his voice had never raised. He had gotten impatient, which a part of him regretted. If there had been a single chance for a peaceful resolution, it had been buried at that point. But the truth was, although he had taken it out on Sir Jackson and his Demon friend, his anger was focused on someone else entirely.

Of course, it was possible that Sir Jackson was lying, or rather that his Demon friend had convinced him of a lie. It could have been that this feeble story about a spur had been invented to dodge the responsibility of the massacre at Heartion. Yes, maybe Sir Jackson, a man Damian thought to be honorable, or that Demon had lied to him. Maybe. But there was another possibility, one that truly filled Damian’s heart with fire, one that had been on the back of his mind ever since he had learned of what happened in that village.

Duke Evrart, or rather one of his minions, was the true culprit. Or rather, the mind behind it. The hand was probably that violent, drunken fool Sir Dennel, who dishonored all knights of the Eastern Empire by calling himself one while behaving no better than the common mercenary -or a highwayman.

Unfortunately, that apparently wild theory made sense. Evrart had always been opposed to the idea of brokering peace with the Hellhounds and the Southern Alliance. From day one, he had argued for war against them. His motive, as ever, wasn’t just ideological, but also pragmatic: he sought more glory, more recognition from his peers. It was an open secret that the man was vying to be made lord paramount of the South, once the region had been brought back into the Imperial realm. And what better way to sour relations between the Eastern Empire and the Southern Alliance, to turn every Imperial noble and commoner against the Hellhounds, than this massacre?

Aye, it made sense. Too much sense. But at the same time, there was too little evidence. This single piece of metal found at Heartion had been enough to convince Sir Jackson, and admittedly it had been enough to shake Damian’s conviction, but it would never suffice to convince any lord of the Empire. And even if they accepted that story, many of them would still want war, be it for glory, loot, or out of lust for violence. As to the commoners, there was no doubt they wanted blood to be repaid with blood… even if it was the blood of innocents.

And that was what made Damian’s anger border on uncontrollable rage. If this entire situation was the result of Duke Evrart’s manipulations, then not only did the man order the death of many Imperial subjects, but there was little the Emperor could do about it. A war had erupted between the Imperials and the Hellhounds, and now nothing could stop it. Worse yet, the loathsome Duke would get away with his crimes. Damian tightened his grip on his reins, seething at the very thought. But there was little he could do. If he had the Duke condemned with so little evidence, the lords would protest this as a violation of the Imperial charters on nobles’ rights -and they would be right. Another Emperor might have had the Duke condemned on trumped up charges, but that was not Damian. How bitterly ironic that the dishonorable could often use the honor of others to protect themselves…

He rubbed his forehead, sensing the birth of a migraine. He made a note to ask the healer for some relief later; he would need his full capabilities for the battle. Above him, the clouds were getting low again. Hopefully, it wouldn’t rain tomorrow. While it might alleviate the chill in the air, it would do no good to battle in such conditions. And speaking of tomorrow, the armies should soon stop and build their camp for the night, Damian thought. In another hour or two, as this place was not ideal for a camp: encircled by tall hills, it would be difficult to-

There was a whistling sound coming from the front, followed by a shout. Peeling his eyes, Damian saw a scout on horseback riding hard to meet with the vanguard.

“Sir Lukan, find out what’s going on,” the Emperor told the knight.

Sir Lukan took off and joined the vanguard as well. Around the Emperor, knights talked among themselves, their hands reaching for their weapons, but not grabbing them just yet. Moments later, Sir Lukan rode back, shouting:

“The Hellhounds are coming!”

There were exclamations of surprise and worry among the knights. Sir Lukan got closer to the Emperor, and explained:

“The scouts spotted them, maybe five miles away, my liege. They’re moving toward us.”

“Five miles!” the Emperor said. “How have they gotten so close so fast?”

“Apparently, forced march through the day, my liege, and possibly the night before.”

It seems these Hellhounds’ stamina matches their strength, Damian thought. But why this forced march? Why the need to meet the Imperial forces here? He looked at the environment around him, analyzing it with care. It wasn’t more or less hilly than the rest of the region. While the place was a little inconvenient, nothing about it was propitious to an ambush, or would seriously hinder the proper deployment of the Imperial troops.

Duke Evrart, having been alerted by one of the knights, joined the group, and was quickly informed of the recent development. Count Willborn was accompanying him.

“They are eager to meet with their death, it seems,” the Duke said with a grin. “Hellhound or not, this forced march will have drained them. Well, let us not make our enemy wait.”

“I agree,” Count Willborn said. “Our own forces are still fresh from today’s march. Let’s meet these beasts in battle!”

“No.”

The abrupt answer surprised both lords, who turned towards the Emperor.

“No? My liege, now is the ideal time for battle!” Duke Evrart argued. “If we delay, the enemy will have time to recover.”

“Something is not right,” the Emperor said. “Why are they rushing to meet us in battle?”

“They were probably going to attack us under the cover of night,” Count Willborn said. “They were not counting on our scouts.”

Hoping to sneak on an entire army? Even with a smaller force? Yes, that might have been conceivable… if Sir Jackson was a fool. But Damian had studied his tactics, he knew the man was anything but. But perhaps he wasn’t in charge of this battle? If it was Neasa instead, then this attempted surprise attack would definitely fit her character.

But that wasn’t likely either. The last report the Emperor had received from his man in Vertrisia indicated that Neasa seemed to have lost favor among her peers, which the spy had assumed to be the consequence of her actions at Heartion. Maybe then the important casualties suffered through the war, including many veterans, had limited the Hellhounds’ options? No. In this case, they would have kept on the defensive, not gone out of their way to attack the Empire.

“Sir Lukan, what do you think?” the Emperor asked.

“I’m afraid there’s little to consider here, my liege,” Sir Lukan intervened. “The enemy is coming for us. We won’t have time to build defenses, and this place is not easily defensible anyway.”

Damian sighed. His knight was correct: waiting for the enemy to attack here, in this valley surrounded by hills, would be a great disadvantage. Not to mention, by the time the Hellhounds reached them, it would be sundown, which would make things even worse for the Imperials. From what the Emperor had learned of the Hellhounds’ performance at the siege of Atvello, the night did not hinder them.

He sucked on his teeth as he gave the orders to keep the troops moving. One of the very first things he was taught about battle tactics was that being forced to follow a certain course was never a good thing. Whether the elements forced a commander’s armies to slow down, whether a lack of supplies led said armies to forage for more -thus making them vulnerable to ambushes-, or whether an officer coming down with a sickness forced another less prepared, less trained officer to take charge, this meant the same thing: that the course of events had diverged, likely in a way that hadn’t been planned for.

But the worst kind of divergence was the one that was created not by chance -or lack thereof-, but by enemy action, because it meant that not only had events not progressed to plan, but also they had begun to follow the enemy’s plan. 

And this was the case right then, evidently.

The Imperial armies continued to march for almost an hour, following the Brehan river. The sun was only about two hours away from sinking behind the horizon when the vanguard spotted the enemy forces. The Emperor rode atop a tall hill, followed by Sir Luken Rainworth and Sir Wiltan Poole, his squire, and a couple of scouts, to survey what would be the battlefield. He smiled to himself when he saw that the scouts had once again done their job well: this was a good site for battle. Both armies would meet in battle in a large valley, east of the river, with no geographic element which the enemy could take and hold in an effort to negate the Imperials’ numerical advantage.

As he always did before an engagement, Damian took his time studying the enemy forces. He remembered the first time he had actually seen a Hellhound, back at Badel Fort; the lupine creatures were just as tall and large as he was told, taller and larger than any man in his army. As the Hellhounds formed their ranks on the field, Damian noticed something peculiar about their formation. Before he could analyze it further, he heard hoovesteps behind him, and noticed Duke Evratt and Count Willborn joining him on the hill.

“They are placing the bulk of their forces in the center,” Count Willborn pointed out, having noticed the same thing Damian had.

“Indeed, and placed what little cavalry they have on the wings,” Damian said. “Yet I doubt they will use it to try and encircle us.”

Lieutenant Zenand Lyton, in charge of the scouts, was called by the Emperor.

“Some of the tribes present have been identified by the colors of their facial paintings,” the lieutenant said. “They were present at the siege of Badel Fort. They are in the center.”

Interesting, Damian thought. For this engagement, the Hellhounds had been asked to bring a small force, meaning they had taken their most veteran warriors. He mentioned this to the others.

“That settles it,” Count Willborn said. “They are planning to pierce through our center, dividing our forces in two, and defeat each half separately. The spearhead tactic, like the one used by Damian II at the battle of Molio.”

“Yes, that would make sense,” Damian said, pressing a fist against his chin. “It would be an effective way to counter our numbers.”

Rather basic, but potentially effective, he thought to himself.

“A clever tactic, indeed,” Duke Evrart said. “I have an excellent idea on how to counter it.”

He marked a pause, a satisfied smile on his face. Damian had no doubt it was deliberately done to draw his audience in.

“What is it, Duke?” Count Willborn said.

“I say we mass most of our forces in the center as well, but do so under the cover of our shields so as to hide our numbers. Let their spearhead crash into a wall of our troops. This will nullify their tactic. Should we play this right, it might give us an opportunity to breach through their ranks, and create a spearhead of our own.”

“Turning their tactic inside out!” The count nodded. “Yes, that might just work.”

“It will,” Duke Evrart said. He turned to the Emperor, silently asking for approval.

Indeed, the tactic might work. It was in fact the one used by king Hulio V against Damian II, during the battle of Nemerio. The king had thought Damian II was going to use the same trick he had at the battle of Molio, and believed he had found an effective way to counter it. The Emperor doubted Duke Evrart knew that, however: he seemed convinced that he himself had come up with this tactic.

He nodded. “Indeed. One of your lieutenants will lead the heavy infantry in the center. Sir Dennel, perhaps?”

“With your permission, my liege, I will lead them myself. As I said previously, these are my men, and furthermore it is my tactic. It is my responsibility to see it through.”

How clever an act he puts on. Damian knew the Duke’s real objective was to become the cornerstone of the battle’s victory. To be known for piercing through the Hellhound’s ranks, and maybe even defeat Mad Jack. After such accomplishments, he could openly ask to be made lord paramount of the South, and the Emperor would have to acquiesce or risk all of the lords of the Empire rising in protest.

A foolproof plan, the Duke likely believed.

“Very well, the center is yours, Duke Evrart. Sir Luken shall command the west wing while Count Willborn will take the east.”

“Understood, my liege,” the Count said.

“Let us get into position, then,” Duke Evrart said. “The enemy has waited long enough.”

Damian had to hand it to the Duke: his troops assembled quickly and efficiently under his command. He divided them into three groups, took command of the one in the middle, and assigned the two others to his son Evrett and to Sir Dennel. Each group was made up of three ranks of infantry and two ranks of archers.

On the other side of the valley, a horn was sounded, its call echoing against the hills, followed by the shouts and roars of the Hellhound warriors. The enemy army began marching forward. As the core of the Imperial forces, led by Duke Evrart, went on marching as well, the Emperor felt a twist in his stomach. A voice at the back of his mind told him that there was something amiss about this whole situation. A spearhead tactic? Was that it? Had Sir Jackson gambled this whole battle on this one gambit? No. There had to be more, Damian simply knew it.

This intuition was reinforced when he saw the way the Hellhound army was deployed. Ostensibly divided into five parts, it formed a half-circle, with the center in front and the wings at the back, like a bow aimed at the center of the Imperial ranks. That didn’t make sense. If they were going for a spearhead, shouldn’t they be hiding that their aim was the center?

***

The first ranks at the center of the Imperial armies were advancing slowly, making sure not to break the wall of shields and reveal their actual numbers. Duke Evrart was riding between the infantry and the archers, looking over his men. Morale was good, though some had expressed concern going after the creatures about whom they had heard much, including that they had taken on the warriors-monks of Anjramanya, and won. Quite a few soldiers had talked about how tall and large they were, how their claws were long and sharp enough to cut through bone. Some rumors circulated about their appetite for Human flesh. Others mentioned the strange way Namtar had died at Baluq. The cold air and the heavy clouds above -that seemed to hang lower every moment- didn’t help. The officers had brought discipline back in the ranks, while Duke Evrart had reminded the soldiers of the importance of that battle, summoning the memory of Heartion and telling them it was now the time for revenge. Soon the soldiers were dutifully following their orders.

The enemy was less than a hundred feet away when suddenly their middle rank broke into a charge, letting out a powerful roar as they did. Imperial officers immediately called for the front line to stop and dig their feet in, and brace for the clash. Even from three ranks away, Duke Evrart could sense the fear in them as they saw how fast the creatures could run, even after a day of forced march. The clash was as terrible as predicted, its sound deafening  and its force ground-shaking. But the first line held, if only just. The Duke grinned. Those creatures’ strength and ferocity was worthless before the Imperial discipline and formation.

The archers retaliated by letting loose a volley of arrows abovehead, then another. The Hellhounds covered themselves with their shields, and suffered few casualties, but each volley helped blunt their assault. For several long minutes, the creatures continued to try and pierce through the Imperial ranks, but the Duke’s men held strong, keeping the wall together, filling in the holes left by the few soldiers who fell. The enemy suffered few losses as well, and for a while the battle seemed undecided. But Evrart was patient. He knew the right moment was coming, and he trusted his officers to know what to do then. 

One of his men, who had been present at Badel Fort, claimed to have spotted Mad Jack among the enemy ranks. Perfect, Evrart thought, absolutely perfect. He pulled out his sword and readied himself.

The strength of the Hellhounds’ assault continued to wane with each unsuccessful attempt at breaching through, and with it -Duke Evrart knew it- their morale. Then, slowly but surely, the Imperials started pushing them back. That was it, the Duke thought. It was time to turn the tide. He gave the signal to his officers, who verbally relayed the orders to the troops. With one powerful shout, the infantry charged the enemy. The Hellhounds visibly recoiled, evidently surprised by this turn of events. The beasts are not used to being the prey rather than the predator, the Duke thought.

To their credit, the creatures held the counterassault as well, but Evrart could sense their defence wouldn’t last long. Soon, their endurance would give out. Soon, their center would give away, and the spearhead would pierce through their ranks. He almost pitied them: after a day of forced march, and despite all of their strength and an admittedly clever strategy, they were going to lose the battle.

His prediction came true once again, but this time the results were above his expectations. The Hellhounds were not just faltering, they were turning tail… and fleeing! The Duke let out an exclamation of triumph. This was even better than he had planned! With the center collapsing completely, he would be able to pull off his spearhead even faster and more effectively.

“After them! Don’t let them escape!” he ordered his officers.

There was another shout among the men, this one almost rageful, and soon all of them were chasing after the fleeing beasts. The Duke followed suit, cueing his horse with his reins. Maybe he’d be able to slay a few enemies himself. Perhaps even Mad Jack himself. He thought for a while that the battle would last until the night, but now it was looking like it would be decided before sunset.

As he entered the fray with victory in his mind, he barely took notice of how the clouds had turned into fog.

***

The realization had struck the Emperor like thunder as he observed the battle from the top of a hill. The fog. By the Divine, the fog! It was all starting to make sense, finally. Sir Jackson knew Vertrisia, it was his home. Of course he would understand its weather. He knew there would be fog on that day. He needed to meet the Imperials, not at this precise location, but at this precise time!

And that was only the first part of his strategy. The Emperor could see the other part happening before his very eyes, as the rest of the valley was slowly but surely becoming engulfed in a dense haze. The enemy center was collapsing, but this apparent retreat was but a bait. And Duke Evrart had taken it! Focused on his charge, and blinded by the fog, he had not noticed that, while the center was moving back, the wings kept moving forward.

“The enemy is going for a pincer move!” Damian shouted at his officers. “Tell our center not to pursue! Do not pursue!”

A young man, in charge of communication, branded two flags, one red and one white, and formed a T with his arms, then a L.

“He won’t see the flags,” the Emperor said. “The horn! Sound the horn!”

The horn was blown three times in quick succession, its high-pitch sound carrying far enough that Damian knew Duke Evrart would hear it. In fact, moments later, a hornblower near him responded to the signal…

But the troops kept charging after the Hellhounds!

“Sound the horn again!” he said.

Three more blows resounded through the valley. This time, no response came.

“By the Divine, he’s ignoring the order!” the Emperor exclaimed, sensing his face turn livid with anger.

At that moment, Damian could scarcely see through the increasingly thick fog that the Imperial wings were being contained by the Hellhounds. The Emperor grinded his teeth as he came to yet another realization. The veterans must actually be in the wings! Sir Jackson must have ordered them to switch their colors. The Hellhounds were using strange weapons, looking like fiery projectiles, to effectively block the cavalry by spooking the horses. To make matters worse, the enemy was using the fog to lead the troops on the wings away from the center of the valley, and the main battle. Soon, the two wings and the center would be unable to see each other, and wouldn’t know what was going on. And then…

***

Evrart had barely even looked back to the hill when he heard the Emperor send the order not to pursue. In truth, the Duke had not been surprised at all. No doubt the Emperor was being conservative again, worried he might lose some troops. But, conveniently, this might give someone else the opportunity to slay Mad Jack. Say, Sir Luken, maybe. No. Evrart knew ignoring the order was a risky gamble, but it would be all worth it. Once the battle was over, no doubt the Emperor would have a fit, but in the face of the creatures’ leaders being slain by the Duke’s men -with some luck, by the Duke’s own hand-, the lords’ plebiscite would be such that he would have to accept the fait accompli. Just like what happened with general Artan Brooke at the battle of Tralin Woods: the man disobeyed his liege’s direct order, charged into the forest, engaged with the barbarian chief, killed him in a duel… and became the founder of House Brooke.

When the horn sounded again, the Duke ordered his horn blower not to respond. Mad Jack had been spotted again among the troops running away, and Evrart wanted his troops to focus solely on that. His own troops had nearly caught on to the runners, who now seemed to be winded. The tactic had worked: Evrart’s spearhead had pierced right through the creatures’ ranks. With Mad Jack in range, victory was but a few feet away. Raising his sword, Evrart ordered the knights around him to follow him into a charge.

Seeing the horses charging them, Mad Jack and the two dozen warriors around him stopped running, and turned to face them, weapons raised. The man, it seemed, didn’t want to die a coward. With an appreciative smile, the Duke raised his sword, ready to strike, as he was now less than fifty feet away from Mad Jack. Forty feet… Under his armor, Mad Jack evidently steeled himself. Thirty feet… Now that he was closer, Evrart could more clearly see the weapons his enemies were holding. They looked like some sort of blunt weapons, made out of some kind of black metal, except they were not holding them like blunt weapons.

There was a series of sounds like thunder, and five knights in front of Evrart dropped to the ground, as if their horses had suddenly been struck by some invisible spear. Sir Parrek, to the Duke’s right, fell back, a splatter of blood exploding from his chest, tainting the Duke’s right arm. Blazes! So these are the weapons they used against Namtar… It was no curse at all!

Suddenly, the Duke’s horse Lamida whinnied and quaked. Following his instinct, Evrart jumped out of his saddle. Seconds later, the horse dropped on his side, his legs kicking, his head twitching. There was a small red hole under his neck.

“Bastards,” the Duke muttered as he watched Lamida struggle for a few moments. He decided to plant his sword through the horse’s neck, ending his suffering.

He checked that his shield was still attached to his wrist, then watched his enemies. For a moment, he feared they would use their weapons again, and hoped his shield might be sufficient to block whatever missiles they spewed. But then, Mad Jack and the warriors around him, both Human, Demon, and Hellhound, put away the strange, long, black weapons behind their backs, and drew their swords and axes instead. Do they wish to fight this honorably? Evrart wondered. No… It was more likely these weapons had limited uses, much like archers did not have bottomless quivers.

Another clever trick, the Duke thought as he took a fighting stance, but not one that would save them. He glanced above his shoulder to see how far his infantry was. By the Divine, where had all that fog come from? It was now thick enough that he couldn’t see past twenty feet. Still, he heard the footsteps of his men stomping the ground, some fifty or sixty feet away. His knights gathered around him. Evrart was glad to see most of them had survived the volley of… whatever it was the enemy had loosed upon them, though some of them were visibly wounded.

“Do not falter, men,” Evrart said to his knights. “The enemy’s leaders are right here. With or without our horses, we will win this. Five hundred oxen from mine own coffers to the man who brings me Mad Jack! I’ll double it if he’s alive, that-”

“Watch out!” one of his knights screamed as he suddenly pushed his Duke.

Both men fell to the ground. Evrart was about to lash out at the knight -Sir Jallen-, when he saw what happened, or rather, what had almost happened. Close to where he had been standing, one of his knights was devoured by the flames from the stomach all the way to his helmet, as if his chestplate had abruptly caught on fire. The enemy, it seemed, had yet another trick up their sleeves: small bottles containing some sort of fiery liquid, which they had tossed at the knights. He remembered some soldiers telling how such weapons had been used at Badel Fort.

“Spread out!” the Duke ordered.

He just about managed to protect himself from one of the bottles, letting it explode against his shield. His knights just about managed to dodge or parry as well, though one of them failed to react in time, and was struck in the shoulder by one of the bottles.

Once again, the enemy abandoned that little tactic, and focused solely on their blunt and bladed weapons. You are trying to delay the inevitable, Mad Jack, the Duke said to himself, but at least I won’t let it say that you went down without a fight. Behind him, he heard that his infantry had almost caught up to him. He leaned towards Sir Jallen, still standing next to his Duke, and told him:

“Attack Mad Jack. Get his full attention. I’ll flank him.”

Sir Jallen nodded sharply, then ran to the enemy leader, sword first. The other knights engaged as well. Evrart followed suit, but at a slower pace. Unbeknownst to Sir Jallen, he had a different idea in mind. He watched Sir Jallen engage in combat with Mad Jack, particularly focusing on the latter. As he predicted, Mad Jack had had training in swordsmanship, though he wasn’t quite on par with a knight. A Demon attacked the Duke, disturbing his observation, but was quickly dealt with. Evrart dodged his ax, slashed open his knee, then finished him off with a thrust to the throat. Then, he reported his attention back to Mad Jack. His style was rather simple and direct, and barely used any feints; typical of someone self-taught. It seemed the rumors that he used to be a lowborn mercenary were true. Sir Jallen was gaining the upper hand, though Mad Jack was not making it easy on him.

Then what Evrart was hoping for happened. Mad Jack, either losing patience or fearing he might lose the duel, pulled out another, smaller, of those queer weapons and used it again. It happened in a matter of seconds, but it had been enough for Evrart to see the way Mad Jack placed his fingers, and infer how to use it. A gush of blood sprouted out of the top of Sir Jallen’s helmet, and the knight fell to the ground without so much as a groan.

Flanked by another knight, Evrart attacked Mad Jack in turn, his sword striking his armed hand before he had time to withdraw it. The weapon fell down to the ground. The Duke went to retrieve it, while his knight engaged with Mad Jack to distract him. Evrart had seen where it had fallen, thankfully, and managed to retrieve it quickly despite the fog having now grown so thick his visibility didn’t extend to more than fifteen feet. He tried to see where his infantry was; they should have nearly caught up with him by now!

As he picked up Mad Jack’s weapon, he saw a group of eight soldiers come out of the heavy fog.

“Where is the rest?” he barked at them.

“Your lordship, we- the-” one of the soldiers said, stuttering.

“Well?”

“Their wings are fighting much harder than we expected,” another of the soldiers said. “They’re pushing us back. And… We’ve heard from the rear, your majesty. We… We’re being encircled!”

The Duke blinked as he looked around. Encircled? By an army half as large as theirs? How was this possible? He shook his head. Focus, he had to focus. As soon as Mad Jack and that Shatter-the-Shields woman would be dead, they could focus on breaking that encirclement. Provided the rest of the Imperial army on the wings hadn’t done so by then. Count Willborn wasn’t the best leader of men, but surely he would be able to use his cavalry to create a breach.

He looked down at the weapon, and dropped his shield to pick it up. Let’s see… He had placed his index finger here, and pulled on this pin. Said pin turned out to be lighter than he thought. The weapon went off, and the Duke almost dropped it in surprise. He wrapped his hand on its base, clumsily as the weapon had evidently not been made for someone wearing a gauntlet.

With a smile on his face, he turned back to face Mad Jack, who, with the help of one of the beasts and some Human mercenary, had managed to defeat the second knight.

***

Well, this fucking sucks, Jackson thought to himself as he saw the man turn to him, grinning like a psychopath and holding his pistol. Given how he was ordering the rest of the knights, Jackson assumed he was some kind of noble. In fact, going by the heraldic on his shield, it was likely Duke Evrart Brannon himself. Jackson thought to grab his rifle once again, but remembered he had emptied the clip, and had no spare. There was the signature sound of a shot, but Jackson didn’t even hear the bullet whistle; his enemy had missed completely. Thank God for that fog. He glanced down at the knight whom Alizana had killed by removing his bevor and piercing his throat, and picked up his shield. From his experience, such protections weren’t always sufficient to stop bullets, but it would be better than nothing. Now what? Do I run? Do I try to dodge?

Another shot. This time, Jackson did hear the bullet whistle past him, maybe a foot away from his head. A sigh of relief escaped him… Until he heard an all-too familiar voice scream in agony. He turned to see Durnin clutching his chest, before falling down. Some twenty feet away, Argyro, busy battling with three soldiers, noticed as well, and tried to disengage and reach him.

The lord cursed audibly, then decided to move closer to his target.

“Holy shit, I gotta get my gun back,” he thought-said to Byron.

“That would be a good idea, yes. But you- On your left!”

Another Imperial, this one a regular soldier rather than a knight, was charging Jackson, a mace raised above his head. Jackson deflected the blow with his shield, then took a quick step to the side, placing the soldier between him and the Duke. He did so right in time for the lord to take a third shot, seizing the soldier in the back. His chainmail, it seemed, had not been sufficient to stop the bullet.

Jackson took this opportunity to slash the soldier’s unprotected inner thigh. Then, using one of the moves taught to him by Byron, he struck the man’s arm, making him drop his mace.

“Take it,” Byron advised. “It will be more useful against that lord’s armor than your sword.”

Using the soldier -who still seemed to be alive in spite of his wounds- as a human barrier, Jackson put away his sword and grabbed the mace. Looking above the soldier’s shoulder, he noticed the Duke was now less than fifteen feet away. Ah, fuck it! I have to run him down before he figures out how to aim.

Before he could, however, more men poured out of the fog, two of them charging him. Jackson managed to strike first, his mace hitting the side of the closest soldier’s helmet. Byron had been correct: the blunt weapon all but crushed the iron, leaving a noticeable dent. The soldier staggered back, a lot of blood splashing the side of his face and pouring down his neck, his sword dropping from his hand. The second man attacked before Jackson could. He thrusted his sword so fast Jackson barely blocked it with his shield; the power of the attack made him flinch and take a step back. He counterattacked, striking above the head with his mace, but the soldier managed to dodge.

As they traded more blows, Jackson realized he was moving slower than usual, and on top of that he was already getting short of breath. His damned ribs… The other man too was looking a bit winded, probably from having had to walk all day. Jackson took a closer look at him. He was no mere soldier. He had a tailor-made suit of armor, and what looked like his own sigil, painted over his shield. A knight, probably. His face, uncovered when a lucky strike removed his helmet, was tainted with sweat, some of it rivulating down his big, fleshy nose and dampening his poorly-kept blond goatee.

The duel ended up being a matter of who would run out of steam first. It was the knight, but not by a big margin. Eventually, the man made a mistake, reacted too slowly, and Jackson’s mace crashed on top of his skull, knocking him out and splashing blood over Jackson’s breastplate. The young man checked on the first soldier, who now laid down on the ground, unmoving. Whether he had passed out from the loss of blood or died, Jackson didn’t know.

He suddenly remembered Duke Evrart and the pistol in his hand. Turning to him, he saw him taking aim, but this time at someone else.

“Liz! Watch out!” Jackson shouted.

His voice, strained by lack of breath, was drowned by the noise of the battle. The Duke, it seemed, had identified her as one of the leaders of the Hellhounds. Tightening his hold on his shield, Jackson took to running, hoping to get between them. Maybe the shield would block the bullet, maybe it would not. It didn’t matter, he had to try. Unfortunately, his pace was also slower than usual, and as the accrued effort caused him pain in his chest.

Time seemed to slow down to a crawl, as if Jackson’s fatigue distorted it. The gunshot rang in his ears, deafening him to any other sound but that of Alizana shouting in pain and surprise. Too occupied with fighting a knight, she had not noticed the lord pointing the pistol at her. The bullet entered her thigh from the side, as if her hide tasset was no thicker than paper. A spasm ran up her side, making her arm jolt, then she fell down on one knee.

Jackson tried to hasten his pace, but then another soldier barged out of the fog, seemingly coming out of nowhere. The young man deflected his attack, bashed him with his shield, and ran around him.

The second shot missed its target, and made a small splash of mud about five inches away from Alizana. The latter managed to stand up, but the third shot, hitting her flank, brought her back down. Jackson screamed. The Duke was too far, and he was too winded; he would not make it in time.

Yet another soldier intervened, distracting Jackson for but a brief moment before a damalorr, tossed by a slinger, struck him in the back. The young man heard a fourth shot, followed by another shout. This one, however, was not a shout of pain, but of anger. Also it wasn’t Alizana’s voice.

It was Neasa’s. Jackson’s opened wide with stupefaction. He had not been aware of her presence among them. After her… less than brilliant display a few weeks ago, she had seemingly disappeared, and eventually had had to be replaced as army leader by her friend Culli. Even the members of her tribe claimed not to know what had happened to her. It seemed she had sneaked in the ranks of her sisters incognito, hidden beneath a cowl that only showed her mouth, her tribe markings washed off her skin. But it was her, no doubt.

She had received that fourth shot, having interposed herself between the Duke and Neasa as she ran towards the former. Apparently unhindered by the wound it had caused her in the leg, she continued running, growling furiously, her head lowered, her fangs bared. Duke Evrart changed targets, aimed at Neasa, and pressed the trigger. And pressed it again. And again. She was shot at least four times in the stomach and the chest, but she continued running at full speed as if the bullets meant nothing to her. Jackson saw the expression of anger on the Duke’s face turn to fear as the Hellhound closed in on him.

A bullet ripped through Neasa’s torso as she slammed into Evrart, her jaws closing on his face with a terrible snarl. The Duke first tried to get her off him, but in vain. With a scream, he placed the muzzle of the pistol against her flank, and shot her until the pistol ran out of ammunition. Neasa stopped struggling, then Duke Evrart finally kicked her off him. As he stood up, Jackson saw large bite marks all over his face; most of his nose was gone, as well as a part of his right cheek. His chestplate was covered in blood.

Alizana let out a terrible scream of fury, and threw herself at the Duke, who had no time to react. Within seconds, he was back on the ground, Alizana on top of him, her claws striking him again, and again, and again, and again…

Jackson reached Alizana, and, wrapping his arms around her, managed to drag her off the Duke. As he did, he caught a glimpse of the nobleman’s face, and very nearly vomited. Alizana screamed again, but this time her anger was tainted with sorrow. Jackson held on to her, trying to calm her down. But she didn’t. Pushing him off her, she charged a few nearby Imperials she had seemingly smelled through the fog, her blood-soaked claws seeking another outlet.

***

The Emperor stared down into the fog-filled valley. As if the visibility wasn’t poor enough, the sun was now setting, its light slowly leaving the land. Still, he could easily tell how the battle was going. The encirclement was almost complete. The center was effectively going to be trapped, as a consequence of Duke Evrart’s nonchalance and his disobedience. As to the wings, they had been led further away, and as predicted would not be able to lend assistance to the center soon. It seemed they might gain the upper hand on the enemy wings, but it would take over an hour. By the time they made it back to the main fight, there might not be much left to save.

Damn it. Damn it all to the blazes. A terrible gloom invaded him as he realized that, if he wanted to avoid the near complete destruction of his army, there was only one thing left to do.

“Sound the retreat,” he muttered.

“My Emperor?” the horn blower said, his eyes bulging.

“I said: sound the retreat. Now!”

Damian could sense the hesitation in the young horn blower as he placed his mouth on the horn and blew five times in two different tones. There was something like a quiver among the Imperial troops still in sight as the sounds reached them, even more so when the order was repeated by more horns among them. The Emperor tightened his hand around his sword’s handle like he was trying to strangle it, his gaze seeking the banners of House Brannon in the fog, but unable to find them. He told his horn blower to sound the retreat again, as loudly as he could: the sound would help guide his troop through the fog.

“The wings are falling back,” one of his strategic advisers, Leoned Guilly, said. “Look, my Emperor, some of our troops in the center have managed to escape the encirclement!”

Damian allowed himself to sigh in relief. Thankfully, the enemy did not chase those who escaped; more than likely, they were too involved in the fight to notice. At a glance, about half of the center had made it out, mostly the Emperor’s men. As Count Willborn and Sir Luken made it back to the hill, Damian was further reassured when he saw their own troops had only suffered light casualties.

“We have to go help the rest,” Count Willborn said after he was informed of the situation. “My Emperor, give the order, and I’ll charge into their ranks.”

“No,” Damian simply said.

“But… My Emperor, Duke Evrart-”

“Duke Evrart has made his choice. He chose to disobey my direct order, and fall head-first into a trap along with his men, and quite a few of mine. I’ll not sacrifice more of my soldiers’ lives to shield him from the consequences of his stupidity.”

Count Willborn’s eyes bulged out. It wasn’t often the Emperor spoke so harshly, especially about a lord.

“My Emperor, I must protest,” the Count said. “Certainly, Duke Evrart is at fault here. But if we attack now, we may turn the tide of the battle, and push the enemy into falling back.”

“We might, and we would sacrifice most of our armies to do so. No, Count Willborn. The enemy has the upper hand, today. We’d be watering a dead tree.”

Count Willborn opened his mouth, but said nothing more. Soon Damian III, his nobles, and the soldiers pulled away from the battle, and left the valley in resigned silence. Sir Luken later offered his apologies to the Emperor. If he hadn’t been led away, he said, if he had known to keep close enough to the center to prevent the encirclement… The Emperor assured him he had nothing to apologize for. Sir Luken hesitated, apparently surprised that the Emperor did not seem as crestfallen as everyone else; it was after all the first time a battle he was personally involved in ended in a defeat.

He was right: Damian III, while not precisely happy about this turn of events, kept his countenance. As he explained to his knight, the war was far from over. As he rode away from the battlefield, Damian looked above his shoulder to look at it one last time. Well played, Sir Jackson Pulver. You have given me a good lesson on tactics today. It is my turn now, and I shall teach you about strategy.

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