5 months earlier

The Denderrikans had re-grouped and set up a camp in the region of Agoo for nearly two months. Time was up. A plan had been made. Dalko was the lead, of course, but everyone had a part to play if they were to take over Feynram. Its tall, white walls were imperious. Mesmerizing. But the city itself was not impenetrable. It was located in a good position, with its back to the mountains and a long spread of rocky ground stretching before it. The guards atop the gates could see out for many miles before an army could catch them unaware.

However, clusters of boulders and rocks left blind spots leading up to the front gate. In addition, thick forest surrounded the city on both sides. The forest had not been there when the city was first built, but over time the underbrush had grown to thin trees, which had turned to strong trees, which had grown to woods with animals and bugs, which had eventually become a mighty forest that was thick with pine.

The plan would go as follows: Kenton would take a small group of men and light a fire in the woods to the east of Feynram. The party of Denderrikans were camped in Aigoo, which was to the west of the city. The fire was merely a distraction, but it was also intended to be more than that. They would set multiple fires, evenly spaced throughout the forest. The train of thought that would burden the city’s leadership would surely be whether or not the fires were set intentionally or not. Feynram was generally a dry land. Fires happened. But these were trying times. Windem was in the middle of war, and what were the odds that multiple fires started within several evenly spaced positions? This part of the plan would sow doubt and uncertainty.

The four Ascendians had their own jobs to attend to. They had been spying on the city of Feynram for two months now. They knew their every coming-and-going. With the scarce supply of food in the land, they had to venture out quite far to trade with neighboring city-states for crops, medicine, and food. The routes of their caravans and wagons had been sketched in detail by Enfallio, who had been stalking their different food search parties for some time now. The Ascendians would collude together and hide themselves within one of the food wagons during one of the wagon’s stops in the region of Menadyr. They always made this stop at night, and the guards who stood watch over the wagons had gotten sloppy lately. The late hour brought on tired eyes and low attention levels. Slipping past the guards and into the wagons would be an easy feat for the nimble and soundless Ascendians.

This was their route to get inside the walls of Feynram. Once inside, they would be offloaded with the rest of the food (cramming themselves into a ball to fit inside one of the larger food crates. The crops inside would be squashed, undoubtedly). That would place them at the heart of the citadel with the rest of the food. It was the perfect location–the center and heart of Feynram was the food supply room in the middle of the Citadel. They had no intel of how well guarded this room was, but they had hoped to manage to squeak by without being seen and work their way to the tunnels. Every major city had tunnels. From the tunnels, one of the routes always led to the bed chamber of the most important man in the city…the Overlord of the city. From there, three Ascendians could wreak plenty of havoc. But ultimately, they planned to keep everything relatively quiet. If the city were to break into chaos, the plan could fall apart. Holding the Overload hostage and in danger’s arms, they planned to coerce the City Guard into opening the main gates (or else watch their master and overload be slit at the throat).

That’s where Tristan and the rest of the Denderrikans came into play. The Denderrikans had come prepared with four hundred men. Each man had brought their preferred weapon in addition to a spear, a shield, and one of the infamous Graycloaks that the Ascendians preferred. Having them shipped across seas from Denderrika had been expensive, but the High Lord Maltor had made it happen at the request of Dalko. Dalko had managed to express this wish to Saphira during one of his visions in Verr-Seeing.

Tristan would approach the gates with a small army at his back. Fifty people at most, with Asherin and Loren at either side of him. The rest of the army would blend into the rocks and boulders of the landscape better than a toad in moss. The cloaks were almost magic in their ability to blend in with surrounding landscapes. Windem would come to rue those gray cloaks as the war waged on.

The plan had depended on the Ascendians having their way with the Overlord and the City Guard. However, if they failed to coerce them into opening the main gates, Tristan would try to coax out the army of Feynram and meet them in battle. They would assume they outnumbered the Denderrikans by four to one, having a force of nearly two hundred men-at-arms behind the walls. That’s where the hidden army would come into play. Three hundred and fifty Graycloaked Denderrikan warriors would rise up from their places among the rocks, like the rocks of Feynram themselves had come to life to slaughter the army of Feynram.

Furthermore, if that didn’t work, the next idea had been put in place by Kenton. Since the second day they had arrived in Aigoo, Kenton’s idea to build a catapult had been approved. They had plenty of rocks at their disposal, and a catapult would allow them to begin crumbling Feynram’s walls if they decided they wouldn’t meet Tristan in battle. After all, no intelligent army would leave their fortress walls if they didn’t have to. Eventually, Asherin had suggested collecting their waste as well, to which many had tried to draw the line for fear of sickness spreading amongst their own camp before they could even move forward with the siege. Dalko had approved it, and ensured they kept that supply far from their main camp.

The catapult was the biggest hold up for the attack. Dalko had put a strain on those who were actively working to build the war machine, causing two men to pass out from the heat and another woman to strain her back so badly that she was immobile for three weeks. Another man had died, falling from atop of a small cliff when he was trying to cut down a tree limb to serve as a wood for the body of the catapult.

Grimlor Eyowen stood tall, his figure both imposing and frail. His overgrown, silver hair cascaded down his back, contrasting sharply with his dark, brooding eyes. Deep lines etched across his forehead, evidence of long years spent in relentless pursuit of perfection. On this day, the top concern had been the layout of the books and scrolls which sat on his top shelves along the perimeter of his bed chambers. Not that they were noticeably crooked, but to Grimlor eyes they were crooked. Not perfect. It had put a great strain on the start to his day.

Grimlor’s robes were a deep emerald green, adorned with intricate gold embroidery. He wore a fanciful ring upon his finger. The bright purple ruby glistened happily atop his ring. Grimlor now shifted his gaze from his bookshelves. He cocked his head, his lips plumped in a permanent frown. He grimaced, grabbed a cloth from his desk, and went about shining the purple ruby until he felt his efforts had been sufficient. He scoffed silently to himself, despairing in the fact that he had no company to commiserate with over the lack of shine in his ruby. Years had removed its original twinkle. To the ordinary eye, however, it was a beautiful ruby and a splendid ring that looked like it had hardly changed in appearance since the day it was created.

The chamber that Grimlor occupied was the same office as the dozens of city masters and overlords who had come before him. He was the City Overlord. High, arched windows allowed streams of gleeful morning light to pour in, casting a warm glow on the polished marble floors. Grimlor scrambled along the marble floor like an animal, groaning over a few new spots that could use scrubbing. He checked the bottom of his soft boots, desperate to find the culprit behind the small smudge of dirt that had blended in to the floor by his bedside.

“Not mine…not mine!” Grimlor muttered to himself. He was shaking…nearly convulsing. Who could have done this? And how are my servants still not here to do their daily clean! He checked the position of the sun. It was still early morning. He calmed himself, realizing that perhaps he was early in his estimate of when they should be arriving. He had awoke earlier than normal when a damning thought had protruded his dreams. He had been in the middle of throwing loaves of fresh bread to the people of Feynram, allowing himself to be covered in glory and praise. Grimlor Eyowen–reliever and savior of the city’s food scarcity. But a simple thought had interrupted this delightful dream. I’ve overslept. He had awoken with a start, leaping from his bed and dashing to the arched window. The sun had not yet crept up from under the horizon. It was a false alarm, but there was no way he’d be able to get back to sleep. Not now. And that was a problem. Grimlor followed a strict sleep schedule, and without adhering to his specific sleep schedule, he might not be fully rested. He cursed himself, figuring he had awoken fifteen minutes too early. He cursed his servant, Marion Otto, who had advised him to put out his candles before bed. “They could start a fire, m’lord,” she had said. Grimlor had cursed loudly, pouting like a child.

“Why must you always be right,” Grimlor pouted. He crossed his arms, his face twisting into a snarl. Without his candles, he wouldn’t have an accurate measurement of the time. How would he accurately maintain a perfect sleep schedule? This had troubled Grimlor greatly as of late, and this morning was no different.

A grand chandelier hung from the ceiling of Grimlor’s bed chambers, its crystals shimmering like stars. A large oak desk, meticulously organized, stood at the center of the room, covered with maps, scrolls, and various documents. Despite the neat organization and articulation, the room was permeated with tension and unease. The ever watchful eyes of the portraits on the walls seemed to flinch with Grimlor’s every movement. The faint scent of incense drifted through the air. Grimlor Eyowen, despite his position as City Overlord, was a prisoner in his own domain.

One of Grimlor’s guards rapped on the door. Grimlor’s head snapped toward the door. His palms began to perspire, curling into his fists. Sweat rolled down the side of his face.

“Come in immediately and be done with it!” shouted Grimlor. Spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled.

The door creaked open with great caution and a guard stepped through. “M’lord, forgive this intrusion. Marion Otto suggested I remind you of your one-on-one meeting at midday with Captain Eamon. I thought I ought to bring this to your attention to give you the proper time to–”

“--I need no reminder, I’ve got it covered.” Grimlor had scurried to the guard and was now shooing him out the door. He lightly pushed his arm and the guard scuffled out of the room, and a confused look spread across his face. “Oh, don’t look so daft. I’m no child, I am your master. And I can keep my own schedules, thank you very much!”

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“It’s just that last time–” the guards' words were cut off, as the door was slammed shut in front of his face. The guard shrugged and then hurried down the wide stairwell, which led from the private chambers of the city’s royalty down to the common area where multiple corridors branched off in different directions. The guard comforted himself, reminding himself that he had done what was required of him by Captain Eamon. There wasn’t much else he could do as a man of his station. His master, Lord Grimlor couldn’t say that he hadn’t tried to warn him. Not like last time.

Eamon Thorne stepped into his private quarters, his gaze sweeping over the spartan yet functional space. It was his space. Although it looked as ordinary and bare as an unoccupied room, that was how he preferred it. There was nothing to distract him from the job at hand. With the way things were, this city couldn’t afford for a man of Eamon Thorne’s influence to fall behind. War was being waged. Food was scarce. Eamon Thorne was the Captain of the Guard in Feynram, and had been for as long as anyone could remember. He was only forty-two, but he had been appointed as Captain of the Guard from an early age. He had been twenty-four and it was a great honor. But the years wore on him, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that his Master and Overlord, Gimlor Eyowen, couldn’t move his focus beyond the misplaced books on his bookshelf. Or the new wrinkle on his yellowy, leather map on his desk. Or the dusk that gathered in the corners of his bed chambers.

Sunlight streamed through the elegant windows of Eamon’s quarters, illuminating the organized desk at the room’s center. Eamon’s desk was the singular element of the room that signified his presence. With a practiced efficiency and a light sigh, Eamon moved to the desk. His leather-gloved fingers traced the neatly stacked reports and ledgers. He thumbed through a stack of reports until he found one titled, “The Dwindling Larder: An Assessment of Food Security in Feynram and Windem.” Eamon scanned the report briefly, pausing when he got to the part about Cropkillers. He drew in a deep intake of breath, then folded the report in half and tucked it away. It was time to brief Lord Grimlor.

Eamon moved to the door, hesitating to glance at the weapons rack along the back wall of his room. An arsenal of gleaming blades and crossbows resided there, each one maintained in optimal condition. One crossbow was missing from its usual spot. Eamon had given it away to one of the graduating apprentices of the city’s watch the day prior. He would have to check up on him at some point today. It would have been the apprentice’s first day on the job. He was on duty at the front gate along with someone else who had graduated a few years earlier. He brushed his way past a small bookshelf on his way to the door, which was mostly bare except for a few small volumes on tactical treatise and historical accounts. Satisfied that all was in order, the Captain stepped out of his quarters and closed the door behind, satisfied that all was in order.

Captain Eamon eased his way through the drafty corridors of the castle, giving a curt nod to the guards he passed. They paid their respects, eager to demonstrate their commitment to their duty as the city-guard. The corridors had no windows, and so they were dimly lit with braziers that flickered wildly, giving off shadows that danced against the walls. Eamon noted that the floors were not as clean and polished in this section of the castle. The further into the citadel you went, the less things were kept nice. Standards have never been a priority here, thought Eamon. But that was not something he would allow himself to lose sleep over. The true worry lies in the fact that they were ill prepared for a well planned attack. They had nearly a hundred and fifty competent guards inside these walls, and an additional fifty men they could pool from if they had to defend the walls from the Denderrikans. Windem had not sent reinforcements, despite Lord Grimlor’s feeble attempts to receive more men. There had been no response from King Tarren at all. Eamon knew that Grimlor’s poor wording and lack of urgency in his letter had surely played a part.

Eamon Thorne stood before the ornate desk of Lord Grimlor, whose face showed evidence of a strained morning. His bottom lip was quivering and his gaze slowly shifted from an aimless stare out of his window to Eamon unflinching eyes. Grimlor seemed to jump suddenly, as if unaware of the Captain’s presence until their eyes had locked.

Eamon clutched the carefully prepared report in his hands, the one titled “The Dwindling Larder: An Assessment of Food Security in Feynram and Windem.”

“Captain Eamon…how, erm…pleasant to find you here this fine morning.” Grimlor looked as though he had just taken a sip of sour milk. “How are things?” Grimlor’s tone came off as careless, indifferent.

“Well, I have gathered a couple of reports here for you, as you required. The first one is in regard to the food shortage that we are seeing across all Windem and specifically, the shortage within our own walls. The second report is a general update on notable events within Feynram.”

“Ah. I see.” Grimlor was rubbing at a spot on his desk that was discolored oak. He licked his thumb and then scrubbed at the spot furiously, wincing as he did so.

“Lord.”

Grimlor looked up from his desk. He paused his cleaning momentarily.

“We have things we need to discuss.”

“Right then. On you go.”

As Eamon began to speak, outlining the grim details of the food shortage that threatened to engulf Windem, Lord Grimlor’s eyes darted around the room, fixating on the slightest imperfections.

“Captain, before we get too far in this business of yours, I must address the positioning of that vase. It is ever so slightly askew, and it’s simply driving me mad.”

Eamon paused, his jaw tightening with barely concealed frustration. He watched Lord Grimlor stride across the room to straighten the offending vase, muttering under his breath as he did so.

“There, much better,” the Overlord proclaimed, returning to his seat and waving a hand dismissively. He seemed content with himself now, crossing his legs and adjusting himself in his seat. “Now, please, continue with your report.”

Eamon took a deep breath, then launched into the summary of his findings. “As I was saying, my lord, the food supplies within the castle walls are dwindling at an alarming rate. We are facing shortages of grains, meats, and produce that could–”

“--Ah, yes, the grains,” Lord Grimlor interrupted once more, his eyes narrowing. “I noticed the storage barrels were not arranged in perfect symmetry when I last inspected the pantry.”

Eamon wondered when Lord Grimlor would have taken the time to inspect the pantry. “My lord, the state of the food stores is far more dire than the mere aesthetic concerns. If we do not address this crisis immediately, we risk civil unrest. The city’s defenses could be compromised. Do not underestimate what a hungry people will do if they suspect the leadership is not dealing with it.”

Lord Grimlor blinked, seemingly taken aback by the Captain’s forceful tone. His leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming anxiously.

The doors to Grimlor’s chambers burst open, emitting two guards who were gasping for breath and winded from sprinting through the corridors. Eamon frowned, a hunch telling him that something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Hey there! Mind my plants!” shouted Grimlor. A plant pot wobbled nervously, eventually steadying itself and spilling a few crumbles of soil on the floor.

“M’lord, we have fires,” said the guard.

“Fires?” asked Grimlor and Eamon in unison.

“East forest. The flames are getting high. We can’t figure out who started them, or how they started…but they’re quickly escalating in scale.”

Grimlor snarled, lurching to his feet and turning on his Captain. “Captain, do something!”

Eamon ignored his Master and Lord, brushing past Grimlor and signaling his guards to follow him out to the ramparts. Grimlor stood still in his chambers, awaiting his servants to arrive like he knew they would. In fact, he couldn’t believe that they hadn’t arrived yet. Grimlor suddenly grew a deep pit in his stomach. He paced back and forth, then decided to lock and bolt his chamber doors. Before he could, they door swung wide open and then closed with a heavy thud, cutting off the sounds of commotion from the ramparts overlooking the fires. The Overlord stumbled back, falling onto his back as four figures loomed before him. Grimlor’s eyes widened with a mixture of fear and confusion. The four figures stood in a line in front of him, their faces obscured by the deep hoods of their graycloaks. Grimlor’s heart pounded in chest. They slowly moved toward him, their movements precise and controlled. Grimlor thought their movements so calculated that it almost seemed unnatural.

Grimlor’s fear slowly turned to anger. But it was a false anger. It was the type of anger that someone embodies when they are scared and the only way to deal with that deep, dark fear is to replace it with anger.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Overlord demanded, his voice wavering and finger wagging. “I will not tolerate this disruption to my city. Identify yourselves. Now!”

The lead figure, slender and no taller than five-foot-eight, stepped forward. His features remained hidden within his hood besides those strikingly blue eyes, which seemed to almost glow.

“Lord Grimlor,” spoke Dalko, his voice low and mysterious. “What an honor.” Although Grimlor couldn’t see it, a smirk had started to spread across Dalko’s face.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever had the honor…” Grimlor trailed off, his mouth agape.

“That would be right. We’ve been watching your city for a while. We are Ascendians, sent by the High Lord Maltor.” Dalko gestured for Xenotho, Enfallio, and Vitarko to remove their hoods. They did so, revealing an unrelenting row of icy stares. Grimlor felt his mouth go dry. He’d heard stories of the Ascendians but they had all sounded like fables.

Grimlor said, “I was not aware that Windem had any such alliance with Denderrika.”

Dalko titled his head, staring idly at his companions. Xenotho grunted, mildly amused but not letting it show on his face.

“There is no such alliance. We’re taking this city by force, as we have identified Feynram as a key outpost. This will be a new unified location for the Denderrikans in the war efforts.”

Grimlor’s eyes widened. He quickly backed away, hands fumbling for the bell on his desk that would summon his guards. “Guards!” he shouted. “Guards! Intruders in the–” before he could finish the sentence, Xenotho had stepped forward and held out his doubled-edge pike before Grimlor’s eyes. Purple markings danced along the staff of the spear-like weapon, freezing Grimlor in place. His limbs were paralyzed in place, stiffened and void of all flexibility.

“Your guards will not be needed for this meeting,” said Dalko, his tone unwavering. “They are otherwise occupied with the fires to the east, and the small camp who standing outside the main gate as we speak.

Grimlor’s heart pounded quickly, realization dawning on him. “You…you started the fires? But why?” Dalko’s next words chilled the Overlord to the core. “The fires are but a prelude to a full-scale siege of your city.”

“And what role do you expect me to play in this?”

“Dalko stepped closer, his presence looming over the paralyzed Overlord. “You, Lord Grimlor, will assist us in ensuring a smooth transition of power.”

With no other choice, Grimlor found himself nodding reluctantly, resigning himself to the Ascendians’ demands–resigning himself to the fate that now awaited his city.