The smell of fresh bread, peppermint tea and warm honey wafted through the common room, packed with a few selected individuals who were requested to attend the morning briefing. With my office still under construction, the common room of the inn served its purpose temporarily.
Tharkas helped himself to a thick gruel, slurping the contents of the bowl without consideration or decorum. His thick callous hands broke a piece of bread and unceremoniously bit into it, spilling crumbs on his leather work overalls.
Taltil, who stood next to the massive orc, refused to meet my gaze. Her fingers fidgeted, weaving and lacing with one another, as she cast a glance on the table, letting it roam around the assortment of foods. Her eyes did not linger any longer than a casual passing glance on any of the filled bowls.
Theko lacked the tact that Taltil so carefully cultivated, when he loudly posed the question, “So Grand Dark Mistress, how did the fight go? We all heard the screaming.”
Waves of blushes passed through me as I realised the innocent context in which Theko so brashly revealed something so private in the common room. I refused to meet the mocking gaze of everyone else, including Captain Jorrell, Captain Hilam, Maapu, Taltil but forced myself to glare daggers at Lyria. My daring rogue, held the same stupid grin, with the same mischievous sparkle in her eyes. A touch of victory and a promise of something wanton laced her already salacious smile, widening it further with every interminably vulnerable moment.
“Only Maapu bet coin on Grand Mistress. Others mock” accused Theko. Had I not been drenched in shame, I would have found his obliviousness and Maapu’s loyalty, charming and adorable.
“Oh, yes,” Lyria finally raised her voice, attracting all eyes toward her. Her rich and euphonic voice carried a subtle hint of coquettishness. “Rils, did try. A lot.”
Lyria waved her hands, with vividly animated gestures as she started to recount the lewd tale with great exhilaration, much to my chagrin. The dour mood of Captain Hilam and Captain Jorrell seemed almost superficial before the honest candour of Lyria. At least, now I know for certain where Celerim got his infectious smile from.
“Oh, I am sorry. I mean, Grand Dark Mistress,” corrected Lyria with feigned modesty. Not even a thin-veiled effort on her part as she attempted to cover her grimace as she continued, “did put a lot of resistance. She struggled. Desperately till her limbs gave out. But there is only so much she could deny. In the end, her legs buckled and she surrendered.”
A look of fascination danced on Taltil’s eyes who still refused to see either of us eye-to-eye while her ears perked higher and higher as Lyria’s voice flowed. She almost drew a sibilant hushed hiss in response, blushing at Lyria’s tale.
Only a singular thought kept pounding inside my head. Was I really that loud? Did the whole Hold hear it?
Obviously, Lyria enjoyed teasing me in public and was determined to have her fill of it.
“Grand Mistress lost the fight?” asked Maapu. Evident disbelief was pasted across his face.
“She did lose, Do you want to know the exact details?” continued Lyria in a loud proclaiming tone. Her philandering words seemed endless as she nudged me lightly with her elbow.
“Can we all return to the map?” I called out, partly in an attempt to divert their attention and to protect my dignity.
Stretched on two dining tables joined together for the special occasion, lay an almost faded leather parchment showing an old map of High-Crag Pass. Five tiny carved wooden figures stood silently; their importance lay in the location they stood.
“Dawnmire, Feydance, Midcrest hollow, Virtos bend and Narris ford,” I read the names where the figures stood, “Are these the five key locations?”
“Narris ford is the only source of fresh water, so it is strategic for the one-horned warlord,” answered Captain Hilam. His fine shaved face brought a bit of vigour to his sullen attitude from the previous day, but he was far from the commanding presence that he emanated during the tourney at Asterlund.
“Virtos bend is a hairpin bend in the pass with a steep fall on the other side. If we can slow their progress and place archers above here,” said Captain Jorrell pointing to a point in the map, a bit high above Virtos bend, “We can rain death from above.”
“Then have your crossbowmen practise there regularly. Have them get a feel for the terrain.” Seeing the trepidation in Captain Jorrell as he bit his lips, I added, “and memorize the path to retreat back when the time comes.”
My fingers traced around the wooden figurines placed on Dawnmire and Feydance, in silence, questioning their significance. Furrows knitted on my brows as I pondered their importance.
“These two are narrow passes where caravans cross in single file, correct?” I asked.
“Once the orcs are done with Hold defences, I will send some of them to place palisades along. Ideal terrain to massacre them,” volunteered Tharkas from the far end of the table, narrowly looking up from the wooden bowl where he buried his face.
“Please, place the palisades towards the exit.” My instruction drew only troubled looks from all the Gathered at the table. Even Tharkas who was a stoic observer for the most part wrinkled his face at my suggestion. Though the question weighed heavily on everyone’s mind, none bothered to openly ask, choosing to reserve their opinions to themselves.
“Maapu, I want you to take the Ogres under your command to both these passes and have them familiarise themselves with the terrain. They would be hurling explosive kegs. Timing is crucial.”
I expected the hobgoblin to be exhilarated, thrilled at the possibility of leading those hulking brutes but instead, a plethora of emotions swirled in his face. With apprehension, he cast his glance from Taltil to Theko, expecting salvation. When none presented themselves, his gaze fell on me directly with a subtle hint of defiance marring his face.
“What to do with others?” asked the goblin.
“Place them under Arlene’s command when she returns,” I replied.
A slow hiss, almost inaudible escaped Maapu’s lips. A low grumble, very subtle and controlled followed. Obviously, he did not take well to losing his command over the rest of the mercenaries.
“Goblins too?” he finally asked controlling his anger.
“Theko will command the goblin sappers, while as for the rest, Taltil will lead them. But Arlene will have full command.”
Maapu’s face darkened further. His anger was a festering wound, troubling him; mangling him from within. The perceived loss of his authority shook him to his core. With knuckles pale, he looked up to me again, but a soft plea replaced the fiery anger in his eyes.
“Ogres strong but stupid. They need a strong and wise leader to teach. Do you want me to give Ogres to Arlene?” I asked.
Scratching his head, he flicked his gaze to Taltil and Theko, the only other goblins in the room; the only other two beings who he considered as his family. Taltil sighed in disagreement while Theko returned an equally bewildered look back.
“The command of the Ogres goes to someone strong and wise,” I slowly repeated to Maapu.
“I will take the Ogres,” replied Maapu as his face brightened while a wide smile, wide enough to split his face in half, revealing all his razor-sharp yellow teeth appeared on his face.
Having pacified Maapu of his almost close temper tantrums, I returned to the only other undiscussed spot on the map.
“What is special about Midcrest Hollow?” All vacant eyes fell silent except for Gwain who still debated with himself about his position at the table. Urged by the vacuum in the room, he slowly shifted deliberately, hoping that my eyes would fall on him and relieve him of his pressure.
“It is just a resting place for caravans in the pass,” replied Gwain as he wiped the sweat from his brow, “Wide enough to hold a few caravans.”
If the Cambion Warlord’s forces were to march through the unforgiving terrain, the cruel hands of their commanders need to urge them with callous regard to their own life. Midcrest Hollow would be the spot for where the command tent would be placed, for an army consolidated through force and conscripted through terror needs to be controlled from up close.
“Are they are other trails to Midcrest Hollow?” I asked.
“Only a small goatherd’s trail,” replied Gwain.
“Pass the details to my aide Taltil. Their commanders will receive a midnight dark-elven styled visit,” I instructed. My heart did a small flutter as I considered the ramifications of my plan. If my plan works well, I will find a place among the drow legends as one of the few drow to ever successfully assassinate archliches.
Captain Jorrell still held his arms crossed in front of him. His plate filled with steaming thick broth remained untouched. He straightened his back as he noticed my questioning gaze fall on him.
“Commander, How do you hope to win this war?” he asked directly, a question that undoubtedly has been plaguing everyone’s mind.
“In my professional opinion, all our current actions are to delay, their advance. Unless Fort Halcyon sends its heavy reinforcements, which they will not, we are just delaying the inevitable,” he completed.
Donning a calm sagely smile, exuding the commanding presence demanded by my station, I explained in a bright orotund voice.
“We will not be wasting our Ogre Rock Hurlers but letting them hurl rock. They would be hurling sacks containing a lethal mixture of gravel, flint, explosive and metal shrapnels. Even undead will be severely crippled and slowed.”
At my words, Captain Jorrell relaxed his posture, leaning forward, his neck thrust in front as his eyes opened slowly, while a sliver of hope permeated his cynical being, almost igniting a flame of forgotten buoyancy.
“Strong as they are, their back-mounted catapults take duration to load. Even under the best of conditions, a hundred and fifty to two hundred hurls is what I estimate from a single Ogre in a day. A unit of twenty Ogres, with two narrow passes we hold for five days each, I reckon we could get thirty thousand fires. Even allowing for variations, the Cambion Warlord would lose a hundred and fifty thousand of his armies before crossing both the passes,” I finished.
“That is half his army,” said a surprised Captain Hilam with awe. His raised voice, almost a cry of joy, reverberated along the walls of the common room, filling all those who were present with a ray of hope, dispelling the dark brooding atmosphere that vacantly hung over them for the past few days.
Only his lanky counterpart honed through a few skirmishes and slightly more experienced him, curved his thin lips, the corners almost forming a hook. He was pessimistic but also realistic.
“What about the stragglers who still manage to reach our artillery? Their heavy armoured forces or even their own artilleries? or worse their aerial forces? I reckon there is at least someone who is simply not dead neck about on their side,” questions Captain Jorrell.
“The undead stragglers will pose no threat. Their limbs and tendons shredded by the shrapnel will be easy picking for Rodo or the pugilist. As for their armoured forces, not even they would advance without losses. Your crossbowmen can make easy work on them.”
“We have altitude on our side. Should they succeed in moving heavy cannons up the trail, we will let them set up a command post at Midcrest Hollow. Nothing that a nightly assassination of their commanders followed by a small conflagration at their explosives can’t solve.”
Only sheer silence settled in the common room. Even Theko who seemed least interested in warfare looked up with bright sparkle in his beady eyes. Relief washed over Captain Hilam’s face as he realised that if the plan were to succeed his men who never have to see the glint of steel. No blood spilled and most importantly, he will not be the one to bear the sad news to surviving relatives in Asterlund.
“Besides, we have an aerial contraption of our own. Details I will withhold for now,” I said, placing hope on Cyrene and more importantly on her ability to convince Colby to provide us with the plan of his flying whatever-mechanical construct that he invented.
“With a bit of propaganda, I can get Fort Halcyon to deploy their mounted gryphon knights into the fray,” I announced. My words captured the attention of all, including Gwain, the solemn innkeeper and unofficial spokesperson for High-Crag Hold.
“Gwain, pass word to the outlying settlements. Those who seek employment, every silver-tongued bastard and gossip-monger you could collect. Inform them that gold and safe passage to the elven lands awaits.”
Gwain, perked up. Rubbing his stained hands on his kitchen apron, he stared in bewilderment. His lips quivered slowly while he debated with himself if it were up to his station to ask any further.
“Let them visit every merchant house whose traders rested in their hamlet. Pass on the dread situation of the horde advancing, their progress unchecked despite the best efforts of The Aberrant Irregulars and more pertinent, about the inability of Fort Halcyon to involve themselves actively; about the inactivity of Fort Halcyon of the commanders of Fort Halcyon.”
“What would dousing our own allies help?” asked Gwain feebly. His expression said that every fibre of his being did not believe in the execution of the plan.
“Duke Lothmar is too crafty to fall for such a rough propaganda but Grand Paladin Champion Lord Mirnovian Zelaphiel Ellandor,” I sneered which devolved halfway into a vicious mocking laugh, the subtle hiss in my smile as I exhaled, making my heart pump warm blood like molten lava through my veins at the mention of his name, “is different.”
“Sashaying on his golden-maned unicorn in his pristinely polished shiny armour, he would let commoners tarnish his carefully catered radiant image. He will deploy his gryphon riders, if not for anything but to save his failing public opinion.”
“With luck, the One-horned Warlord will not reach our gates,” I completed.
I was rewarded with a standing ovation for my efforts as clear victory was in sight of all. Loud cheers and slapping of wooden mugs on the table followed; the din slowly organised itself into a rhythmic roar of merry revelry as reassurance and deliverance lit candles of hope amidst. A battle song which soon devolved halfway into a bawdy tune filled the common room, lifting their spirits further.
Only Lyria sat solemnly, a vacant silence shrouding her. She let her head fall low, shrugging a sense of disbelief. Thick cords of apprehension sought to chain her. Her face darkened with every growing moment.
In an almost barely audible note, she muttered, “Lyllanthras will not give up so easily.”
While I desperately wanted to wrap my arms around Lyria, breathing in her very presence, filling myself with her very being, her comfort and nurture. I wanted to whisper that unease festering in her heart away. But I had other concerns.
War needs money. In fact, war drains money. By my estimate, the crossbowmen would require a conservation appraisal of fifty thousand bolts for twenty days and more the number if the siege dragged on. Lyria’s forge is insufficient to produce such a voluminous number in a narrow period.
Tharkas, no doubt would be able to provide the gravel and flint but the explosives and metal shrapnel needed would have to come from somewhere. One place that cannot provide me with the quantities I need is the Orc’s smithy. The most logical conclusion would be to approach the dwarves, but given my status as an exile, I would be hard-pressed to find any dwarven company willing to do business with me.
If Dar wasn’t bogged with procuring herbs and medicinal products, he would have served as a great proxy.
Finally, there is the issue of gold. Propaganda works well when backed by bulging pouches filled with gold. Negotiations with Antilorwe, even with a leaning of Cyrene will be delayed at best.
Slowly, a pounding ache resounded inside my head with the calculations. For one unendingly painful moment, I really wish Delyn were here with me. My daughter had a mental knack for crunching these kinds of numbers.
A reliable supplier of materials and a lot of unmarked gold is what I need to win this war -- to defend High-Crag Pass, and to establish my own realm for Delyn.
