Impressions in Sulfur

When the flaps closed behind them, and it was like night had fallen. The interior was inumbrated by a lining of dark fabrics, lit only by a pair of lamps hanging from wire rafters. It took his eyes many moments to adjust to the lukewarm light, and he wasn’t any happier when they did.

A large table sat in the center, blanketed by a sheet of yellowed parchment paper so large it had to be weighted down at the corners. Standing around the table, at the edges of the pool of lamplight, were half a dozen soldiers all armored like the captain still holding onto Arlo’s arm. A dozen more stood outside of the light, metallic smudges he couldn't quite discern from the dark.

As with everyone else thus far, their eyes turned directly to Arlo. They were, unsurprisingly, just as unkind. He looked to and away from each one, until he reached the man at the head of the table, who he understood implicitly to be the promised general.

His armor was dazzlingly intricate, each piece from gorget to pauldrons to faulds to greaves was worked with embellished patterns of silver and gold, engraved into the steel with artisanal skill. His tabard, white like silk, bore the same seven-pointed star as the tent.

He was older than the captain, his tied-back hair was beginning to gray and his short beard was salted along his cheeks, where it wasn’t parted by old scars. But his eyes were still young, and fierce, and when Arlo looked into them he noticed a striking resemblance to the man beside him. He laid a hand on the hilt of an utterly massive sword resting against the table, and there was a sharp sound as every other hand in the room went to its own weapon.

“General Gaulter,” the captain said, saluting with his free hand.

The general kept a loose hold on his sword. He stared hard at Arlo another moment, but unlike the others, the aggressive wariness left him quickly. In a flicker of lamplight, he suddenly looked disinterested, and his attention turned away.

“Johenn,” his voice was low and enthralling. “Would you like to explain why you have brought an incubus into my camp?”

Johenn shifted uncomfortably as the weight of the room’s focus turned to him. “The scouts we sent to Xeol found him beyond the Bulwark. They believe him to be an important fixture of the warcamp.”

Arlo wanted to protest, but he figured interrupting now would earn him much worse than a sore jaw.

“They’re probably right,” Gaulter said. “Incubi are rare and powerful creatures, which is why I asked: why is it here?”

“Information…sir. We haven’t been able to get eyes on Xeol in weeks, they could be getting reinforcements from the other warcamps.”

“Unlikely.”

“Of course, sir, but—”

Gaulter let go of his sword. He didn’t shush, or make any quieting motion, but Johenn immediately fell silent anyway. The general made his way around the table towards them, until he came to stand before Arlo, a good two-heads taller. Their eyes met again, and still Gaulter regarded him with casual appraisal, like someone inspecting produce.

“Are you the spawn of Sculptor Gryn?”

Silence. Arlo blinked up at him, then glanced over to Johenn to see if he was permitted to speak. The captain clicked his tongue.

“Answer him.”

“Uhm…” Arlo shook his head. “Both of my parents were psychologists.”

Murmurs of discontent rippled the room, confusion twisted every face but Gaulter’s. Despite telling the truth, Arlo couldn’t help but feel he’d given the wrong answer. When the general’s hand clasped him gently, but firmly, on the back of his neck, he went rigid and let himself be led closer to the table.

The parchment on top was a map, and although geography wasn’t his strongest subject, Arlo knew immediately and certainly that it was not Earth he was looking at. The words Melletir Span were written at the top, and he didn’t recognize it any more than he did Lorthos, or Xeol, or the Bulwark.

“Point to the Xeol warcamp,” Gaulter commanded.

Arlo had never failed to study before an exam, he wasn’t used to being so unprepared. He stared intently at the map, eyes darting between the dozens of unlabeled dots that must have been points of interest. He found a dark crescent towards the south-western edge so large it almost took up the whole corner, and on its inside was a dot with a designation—or rather, a symbol: the seven-pointed star. Perhaps that was where he was now.

Just east of the center was a mountain range running south all the way to the bottom of the Span’s landmass. In calligraphy almost too ornate for him to read were the words: Bulwark Mountains, and behind it were a series of dots, all unlabeled. Xeol must have been one of them.

It was unclear how far away the range was meant to be, but there was no way those knights had found him anywhere close to it. If he had to guess, he’d woken up only a few miles from town, which was unhelpful.

He could feel the room growing impatient with him, so he picked one of the larger dots behind the Bulwark and said a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening. More murmurs; he was hopeful for a moment, before Gaulter shoved him back towards Johenn, who hastily took him by the arm again.

“He’s useless.”

“He’s lying,” Johenn said.

“Then he’s worse than useless.”

“I’m not lying,” Arlo pleaded, feeling compelled to defend himself. “I don’t know where it is because I don’t know where anything is. I’m not from Xeol, I’m from Ohio!”

Gaulter ignored him. “Send the scouts out again, and if they come across another demon—kill it. We trust our own eyes, not the brimstone words of our enemy.”

“And him? Should we hold him for highlord Obain?”

There was a pause, and another long, appraising look from the general. “We’ve made enough concessions for the highlord, and conversing with incubi invites disaster. Bind him, put him in a cell. When the physicians are free, they can bleed him, then have the divineers burn him.”

“I’m sorry—bleed me?”

“Yes, father,” Johenn bowed his head and yanked Arlo by the arm. “Out. Let’s go.”

“Burn me?”

With familiar indelicacy, Johenn pulled them outside, but Arlo found his feet were suddenly heavy as soon as they left the tent. The captain looked ready to strike him until he must have seen the genuine panic on his face.

“So you’re just going to kill me?”

“I told you what would happen if you said nothing.”

“Did you want me to lie? I don’t know anything, why won’t anyone believe me? I don’t even get a trial?”

“You’re the enemy, the war is your trial.”

“What war?”

Johenn set his jaw. “Alright, that’s enough. Already made me look like a fool once, I won’t give you a chance to do it again.”

Then he started off without another word, dragging Arlo along like a wounded lamb to the slaughter.