Five days later, amidst a particularly frigid late autumn frosting, they came. Marching under the cover of darkness, they escaped the shrouded boughs of the forest’s ancient sentinels at a sedate pace. The glow of their torches blinked into iridescent light as the obscuring cover faded, appearing like a pack of wolves suddenly brought into the light, predatory eyes shining brightly into the night. They were too far from the city to be observed leaving the forest by eye, at least not beneath the enshroudment of night’s veil. The way ahead had already been scouted by rangers from among the Duke’s retainers, experienced woodsmen that had gone ahead of even the vanguard and diligently scoured the forest to ensure neither spies nor ambushers in the employ of the Empress lay in wait. Not a man atop Maegwyn’s walls perceived the infiltrating column as they stepped out onto the plains.And so they acted with neither caution nor haste, marching calmly and leisurely, knowing none would dare to oppose them in their fell purpose. Save for a vigilant few, none among them wore arms or armor if they had the means, storing it aboard the various covered wagons they marched beside.
Despite the lateness of the hour, they continued to march, caring naught for either weather or visibility. The Duke and the general of the Aachish mercenaries had come to an understanding some hours prior regarding their planned route. While their men may have been better rested if they had encamped within the forest one final time before leaving its close embrace the following day, they would have been in plain sight of the city all the while as they left. If the defenders of Maegwyn took to the field to meet them at the forest road’s precariously narrow outlet, the column would be unable to bring its full might to bear and would likely suffer grievous harm. No matter the condition of their men, with victory so close at hand, neither the Duke nor the Aachish commanders could conscience such a risk in the final hour.
Instead, concealed from prying eyes, they hoped to affect an orderly withdrawal from the forest. It would be hours yet for the rest of the column to reach the plains of the capital region, but by the time they had done so the vanguard would have already arranged for the army’s permanent encampment for the duration of the siege. The men would be exhausted, but by the time the veil of night lifted the newly awakened forces of the Empress would find an enemy army fully deployed into the plains, encamped within the protective embrace of numerous trenchworks and a sturdy palisade. No man would be so foolish as to attack such a superior force when safely entrenched, and their men could have a leisurely day of rest to recover their strength from the grueling march.
Gaunt of face and with shadowed, hollow eyes, seemingly endless ranks of men cleared the forest. Their long march had not been one of ease, and every man among them bore the marks of the tribulation it had so painfully carved upon their flesh. Illuminated in the dim moonlight were their clothes, stained dark with mud from their journey, ends fraying, and the bulk covered by disjointed blocks of colored fabric marking where holes and tears had been crudely repaired. Weak and hungry from the rationing the long days of their march had necessitated, their bodies trembled in the cold. The arms of men came together, grasping their own shoulders, thoroughly starved for warmth in the chill night.
While they had faced far greater deprivations on previous nights, with rain soaking their clothes and sapping the heat from their very bones, it had been much warmer then. This night however, the wind howled and sapped away at their precious body heat as they marched, and they were so very far away from the great fires of an encampment. It would be no great surprise if many fell this night, whether they were the long sick, finally brought over the edge by this sudden chill, or were those losing the motivation to go on, weeks of perilous march finally culminating in the spontaneous collapse of men upon the side of the road, unwilling to go on. With neither fire nor shelter, none that fell in such exhausted heaps would survive the night, succumbing to the elements and lying as morbid warnings to their fellows that lived on. Occasionally they may be aided, picked up and supported by their companions as they marched. But every man among the column was already thoroughly exhausted and these were hard men. If they were given to such naive sentiment in the first place, they likely would never have followed their liege into betrayal.
In stark contrast to the dour and gaunt expressions of the Duke’s men, were the seemingly eternally jovial Aachish mercenaries. Most were well used to weather of ill favor and had great experience upon campaign marching far from the boundaries of friendly lands. As such thhey had come well prepared. Their layers of heavy and gaudy cloth had supported them in good stead among the endless delays of the past weeks, the thick layers of cotton and linen effectively cutting the biting chill of the wind and keeping them warm in the worst of conditions.
While the Duke’s own men may have balked at the thought of despoiling their fellow countrymen, neither the Aachish mercenaries nor the Duke himself whom they served held such petty qualms. Every village they chanced upon along their route was pillaged by blade and fire, the animals and treasure therein stolen while the people were defiled. The majority of the killing in these raids had been performed by the mercenaries, and therefore to them went the lionshare of the spoils, leaving the Duke’s men with barely enough to supplement their meager rations, while the men of Aachenwald were kept well fed. Flush with treasure and silver from both the Duke’s freely flowing war chest and the spoils seized from every village they crossed, the Aachish mercenaries remained high in spirit despite the ill circumstance of the march.
Men with closely shaven faces, armed with billhooks and scythes or hastily made halberds crafted from implements of agriculture marched besides the mercenaries. These men wore no armor but that scavenged from the fallen, adorned in all manner of peasant dress, but with their clothes slashed and adorned with bolts of linen in a crude effort to bring their appearances to that more in line with the men of Aachenwald whom they aped in both manner and dress. These were men of Albion, having seemingly forgone the centuries of enmity and bad blood between the two peoples to stand shoulder to shoulder with the object of their national hatred as they marched in rebellion against their fellow countrymen.
Being at the forefront of battle, the Aachish mercenaries had been granted the right to recruit those willing from the local populace to replenish their losses and to even expand their ranks. Despite the barbarity of the mercenaries, joining their ranks ensured a man could survive the coming winter even as his entire fortune and livelihood was stolen at the point of their blades. Between the offers of food or silver and promises of succor for the families of the men so enlisted, the mercenaries had nearly doubled their number by the time the army reached Maegwyn.
While beginning as but a small fraction of his forces, the numbers of the Aachish mercenaries had swelled enough to begin exerting considerable pressure among the Duke’s army. Despite his high status as a feudal lore, he debased himself currying the favor of these low born peasants, acquiescing to their petty whims and flights of fancy all in effort to ensure that they remained amongst the most motivated of his army. They were loyal to none but coin, and while the Duke could afford to cause affront to his sworn bannermen, the lot of them having forgone any hope of redemption in the eyes of the Empress against whom they rebelled and owing fealty to the Duke, he could not do so to those imported from foreign lands. No matter the honeyed promises of the King of Aachenwald nor the reputation of the mercenaries, if he did not go to great lengths to keep them appeased and in good form then they would surely retreat or rise up against him, or even worse seek employ in the service of the Empress.
Despite the confidence of the army’s leaders however, their passing had not been made unseen. While the flowing light of their lanterns was far too distant to sight from the city with the naked eye, mere mortal men were not the only ones standing watch. From the peak of the Spire, the rolling plains of the capital region remained visible for miles upon miles. By day, if not by night, the outlet of the forest road was in clear sight from such a vantage, and even in the depths of night the flickering glow of a lantern would be visible with but little aid. While the art of scrying upon her foes though esoteric means may have been denied to the Empress by her more skilled opponent, the delicate artifice of glass and steel lying within her study relied upon naught but physical principles.
A rare contraption of recent devising, normally employed to study the motions of heavenly bodies, it had reached the Empress’s hands through her extensive network of scholarly contacts. Having had her preferred means of observation so uncouthly stymied, she had at once organized a constant vigil of the outlet of King Hagar’s Way using the tool, a magnificent eyepiece, and a rotation of her handmaidens. A tool meant to gaze upon the heavens far beyond the clouds would be able to sight to fine detail that but a scant few miles away after all. With a loud exclamation of relief, as soon as the handmaiden on duty that night had confirmed the sighting of hundreds of flickering torches and lanterns illuminating the night, she had rushed to inform the Empress.
“Your Majesty, the enemy for which you have waited these long hours has arrived.” Bowing low in supplication one of the Empress’s handmaidens reported, a woman by the name of Clara of meek demeanor and dressed in the garb of a humble servant. Dark rings hung beneath her eyes, evidence of the long and tired hours for which she had stood watch.
“Thank you Clara, you have well earned your rest tonight. Please inform the others that they will no longer need to stand watch, the wait is over at last. I shall handle things myself from here.” The Empress dismissed her servant with a grateful heart.
“But before you go, please deliver this to the palace couriers, it is for Nathaniel. I know not his exact whereabouts at this moment, but they should possess means enough to locate him even at this dark hour.” After quickly penning a note to apprise Nathaniel of the sighting of enemy forces, she handed it to her servant and gestured for her to leave. Hopefully after she had delivered the missive, she would be able to claim the rest she so deserved.
The mundane observation, while performed by necessity, was horridly dull and demanded an uncomfortable shift of the sleeping schedule for her servants. For the past week they had stood and gazed upon one particular spot through her eyepiece for hours upon hours, their legs weak and half lidded eyes ever gaining in weight, almost impossible to keep open throughout their long shifts. They would be beyond ecstatic at the news of finally being released from such burdensome duties. With an internal sigh that she did not let past her lips, the Empress rose from the plush chair upon which she had been ensconced and strode purposefully to an isolated chamber beneath the very roof of the Spire itself. The room lay at the end of a corridor bereft of either decoration or light, possessing neither apertures to admit sunlight and moonlight nor brackets upon the wall for the hanging of torches or lanterns.
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She walked slowly, her way illuminated solely by the weak light of a small lantern held tightly in her hand. Upon reaching the chamber’s entrance at the end of the corridor she stopped, reaching not for the thick oaken portal of the chamber’s entrance, but rather feeling along the rough stone of the wall. As her wandering hand felt one stone in particular of but little resistance she pushed. The stone depressed into the wall with a grating sound at the same time as a patch of the bare stone wall of the corridor swung inward, revealing a secret entrance to a hidden chamber. After clambering through the revealed entranceway, the stone sealed shut once more, plunging the lonely corridor again into total darkness.
The secret chamber was of modest size in comparison to the rest of the Empress’s palatial rooms, but was so densely packed with miscellaneous items it seemed much larger. It was as if anything in the world could be found within its stony confines. Shelves stood tall, huddled close within the dimensions of the room with barely three handsbreadths between each. Upon each shelf was an eclectic combination of loose items, such as sprigs or cuttings of plants or finely crafted and irregularly shaped constructs of stone. They stood beside countless tomes, neatly placed upon the shelves and supported with heavy stone bookends to prevent their falling. These books held names both mundane and of evil repute, possessing a mixture of both accounts of natural philosophy and the fell deeds of conjurers past, many of which were held in contempt for touching upon the darker nature of the forces beyond mortal ken.
Ores of various types lay about the room haphazardly, some appearing rather plain and dull, barely distinguishable from ordinary stone, while others pierced through by richly covered veins shone brilliantly, reflected by the flickering light of her lantern. From the ceiling hung hundreds of varieties of both herbs and flowers, each expertly pressed and dried, tightly bound with string to the ceiling forming a veritable canopy of greenery just above her head. In a corner stood a thoroughly abused workbench, its scarred surface covered in scratches, dents, and furrows inflicted by the tools of the witch’s trade. Awls and mortars, hammers and chisels, needles and spun steel sat upon shelves nailed into the rear of the workbench. In the center of the chamber, a solitary moonbeam emanating from a small hole drilled into the wall from the inside, cast its lonely light upon the seemingly sole location of bare stone floor, the rest lying feet deep under layers of tomes or items too large to fit onto the shelves. What little stone that could be so spied from beneath the clutter was of grainy texture and charred black, covered in patches of soot and half scrubbed powder or chalk so deeply that it had permanently stained the stone.
The Empress moved cautiously as she entered the room, stepping carefully amidst a clutter so disorganized that none but her could ever hope to locate anything within. In the center of the room lay an ancient grimoire, revealed under the flickering light of the lantern upon a lectern presiding over the bare stone. Its text was timeworn and barely legible from what could quite possibly be centuries of active use, but seemed to gleam bright red in the light, perhaps desperate to be gazed upon, to be used by one of her abilities. But it would be unnecessary for that night’s working, a crafting she had long since ingrained into her mind from hundreds of such prior constructs.
It would be but a simple affair, requiring only slight alterations to the clouds above already blanketing the sky. It would incur naught but a trifling cost whether in ingredients or energy. It would be far less expensive than a more direct attack upon the foe, as so hoped for by Nathaniel, would be, and with far greater effect. So many among the uninitiated valued not the subtleties of her craft when compared to the flashy but of minimal impact workings of those petty rogues of little ability gallivanting about claiming themselves conjurors.
Within minutes every reagent that she would need had been assembled and thoroughly macerated, formed into a fine powder that gleamed under the light of her lantern. With practiced strokes, the powder was applied by a wetted brush to the bare stone of the floor in an intricate pattern, reminiscent of a snowflake and of no less complexity or delicateness. Upon the completion of the final stroke, the powder was lit by careful application of her lantern, the entire sigil then being rapidly consumed within a bright conflagration. The brightly colored smoke so emitted by the fire, rather than filling the room as may normally have been expected, was propelled with force out of the small hole in the stone wall. It chased the shining moon beam out into the night sky, rising higher and higher as if seeking the moonlight.
With a weary sigh, the Empress left the room as she had found it, thoroughly drained from the ritual. The battle would begin upon the morrow it seemed, at least from the reported disposition of the foe. Unless her working could affect a small miracle, then the mettle of her soldiery would be sorely tested. A pang went through her heart as she recalled Nathaniel, so unsure of their chances. It would be a tragedy if all those lives of the people of the city, her people, were wasted in a vain attempt to defend the Spire. But it had to be done, if not for the sake of the city’s populace, then for the sake of the Empire as a whole. But for now, such heavy topics weighed too heavily upon her mind. She was exhausted from the ritual, its mystic intricacies having taken a heavy toll both upon her mind and upon her stamina. Tonight she would rest and recover, action and pondering would wait for the morrow.
Dry and languid clouds sat high in the sky, arrogantly intercepting the gleaming light of the all seeing moon. These clouds grew darker as they were joined by colorful, shining smoke rising from the Spire, becoming fat with water as the air’s vapor condensed and caused them to sag. The moon’s light grew dimmer as the engorged clouds grew and became more opaque, greedily devouring its light as they plunged the land into an even deeper darkness. They grew to such great size that they hung low, dipping towards the earth as suspended water and ice became rain set to pour upon the land.
It was barely felt at first, single droplets quickly absorbed by cloth or pattering faintly off of the helms of men too exhausted to listen. But droplet by droplet it fell, gaining in both volume and intensity as it plunged down upon the weary and unsuspecting men below. It came down as a sleeting shower of half frozen liquid, ushering in waves of icy chill upon those poor unfortunate souls caught within its cold embrace.
In the city of Maegwyn, the rain was felt with but minimal effect. The Home Guard quartered within barracks constructed of stout and sturdy timbers were unaffected by its chill entirely. The droplets that struck against the heavy walls of their shelter merely bounced off or were arrested entirely, dripping down the beams until they fell to the earth.
The peasant levy, being housed in mere campaigning tents, were slightly more impacted by the rains. Lying asleep in their large tents of oiled canvas, twelve men to a tent, each suffered from the chill seeping through the porous fabric of their shelter, clutching woolen blankets tightly about themselves to gain succor from the icy air. They would not be happy that night, so beset by fell chill, but they would survive.
The patrolmen in the streets and the sentries atop the wall cursed their ill luck, turning broad brimmed hats down or burrowing deep into their woolen cloaks in an effort to escape the rains, counting down the hours until they could return to the comforting fires of the gatehouse or the warm beds of the barracks. It was a thoroughly miserable time to be compelled by duty to stay alert, and their attention slackened in the face of a seemingly endless sheet of chill water. But while their attention may be sapped, and their motivation diminished, they had warm places to rest and beds to return to.
The water fallen across the city, whether hitting the cobbled stones of the pavement or dripping down from the walls of its buildings, collected in small shallow puddles in the streets. As these puddles gained in height, they would flow compelled by gravity and drained away, for the majority at least, into the city’s sewers. The ancient center of urbanity held a robust means of drainage, and even against such ensorcelled rains it held strong, diverting the ongoing deluge safely into the river and avoiding flooding in all but a few sections of the outer city. Every droplet of water must have a final destination however, and what entered the sewers was redirected to the river bisecting the city, contributing to the slow but steady rise in its level as its roiling mass swelled.
In great contrast to the alacrity with which Maegwyn as a whole withstood the rains, in the marching column of the Duke’s army the storm was felt with dread and terror. Men already exhausted and cold from their long journey, became thoroughly soaked as they marched, covered in a layer of icy rime that drove the cold deep into their very bones. In most circumstances this may have been that of mere annoyance, but by this point the men so drenched were weak and weary, compelled by their leaders to continue their march even into the chill evening and ever so far from the welcoming embrace of warm bonfires.
Urgency then overcame most of the column. It was unusual to march at night in even the best of weather, and now they marched under the unmerciful gaze of father winter himself. Despite the month lying within the midst of autumn the cold prevailed, as if the heavens themselves opposed their cause. The vanguard began to set up the tents immediately rather than continuing to advance, knowing the cost of a delay upon tent and shelter within the storm’s icy grip. To this effect, they made brief their scouring of the land in search of locations of advantage, and set the foundations of the encampment much farther from the city than had been planned.
Their encampment thus rose atop a small rise upon the plans, although much of its bulk would inevitably stretch into the lowlands owing to the limited quantity of elevated terrain. High ground was sparse amidst the fertile farmlands of Albion’s capital region, and many of the tents forced by circumstance into the lower elevations would be at risk of flooding. The icy rain was only slowly absorbed by the ground, its bulk semi hardened from the late autumn chill, reaching saturation quickly in the deluge. Soon the water would cease being absorbed altogether and collect together in puddles upon the earth.
As the rains fell, the men of the column grew incensed, with only the dour but diligent sworn men at arms and knights of the Duke’s bannermen keeping discipline enough to stay in good order. The column fell apart in a chaotic tangle as for the majority discipline crumbled, the men scrambling for shelter from the rain, seeking either cover or breaking formation in a dash for the camp. Supply wagons were cast aside entirely, the horses left forgotten or attended only by those vassals of the Duke still possessing calm and wisdom, or otherwise used by shivering men as improvised cover against the rains. The forest road became littered by weapons or luggage hastily cast aside that had been deemed more burdensome than valuable.
The army’s cohesion dissolved entirely within the chaos, much to the chagrin of the Duke. Through all of his carefully cultivated preparations and countless meetings and discussions amongst his influential officers, he had hoped to march with strength and swiftness against the unprepared forces of the Empress. If all had proceeded according to plan, they would have been caught off guard by his aggressive maneuver, helpless to resist as he swept over their outer defenses checked only by the archaic stone bulk of the city’s curtain wall. However from the rapid disintegration of order in the midst of mere rain, it seemed that the army would be in no shape to wage war against the Empress the following day. Perhaps mercenaries motivated more by coin and personal comfort than loyalty or belief in a cause had been a poor choice for such a great portion of his army.