“A frontal assault is nothing short of suicide.”
One of the coalition commanders spoke up, pressing a fingertip against the map spread across the table.
“The moment the vanguard hits that slope, rocks and arrows will rain down from the ramparts. And there isn’t a single decent detour to bypass it.”
“It’s not as though we have no alternatives at all, is it?”
Daren, his arms folded as he scrutinized the intricate topography sketched across the parchment, broke his silence.
“What if we swing north toward the rear of the stronghold, just as His Imperial Highness attempted? So long as we guard against an ambush, it remains the most viable option. Establishing a foothold behind the fortress will secure us the geographical high ground.”
“If we can even get through in one piece, that is.”
Kylias, sitting stiff-backed at the far end of the long table, pointed to a narrow pass on the map and cut in with venom: “Reaching the rebel stronghold requires traversing a defile barely broad enough for two wagons. On top of that, the Yotengar peaks are frequently choked in dense fog, even under the midday sun. If the weather turns, you won’t be able to see an inch before your eyes.”
The knight glared across the table, biting off each word with bitter emphasis.
“That was precisely why we were caught completely helpless when the ambush struck.”
Varkas stared down at the terrain map of Yotengar without uttering a word.
The rebel fortress backed into a sheer precipice to the east, making any advance from that side impossible. To the south lay a relatively gentle incline, yet its narrow entrance precluded the deployment of a large force.
Just as Daren had said, striking the rear remained the only realistic course of action.
The trouble was, the enemy undoubtedly knew this as well.
Varkas pressed his fingers against his temple, brooding over his cousin’s reckless march. Had Gareth shown even a shred of prudence in handling his troops, keeping the possibility of hidden forces in mind along that detour, this disaster would never have unfolded.
‘He must have assumed an ambush was impossible, arrogant in his belief that he had caught them off guard.’
A heavy breath slipped past Varkas’s lips.
Gareth’s rash temperament was nothing new, but it was impossible to write off every turn of fortune falling so neatly into enemy hands as mere bad luck.
To dangle the perfect bait at the exact moment Gareth was already beside himself with fury over the betrothal, and to time the ambush with such flawless precision, pointed almost certainly to a collaborator from within.
Naturally, his suspicions turned toward the one who stood to gain the most from this calamity.
If that woman was truly behind it all…
Varkas shielded his eyes with one hand. If his assumption proved correct, the woman had lost all reason.
Should it come to light that she had conspired with traitors to fracture the Empire and lure the Crown Prince into a trap, she would never escape the gallows.
Nor would the retribution halt with her. It would consume her house, and even her children…
“What are your thoughts, Your Grace?”
The question snapped the thread of his thoughts.
Varkas turned toward the speaker. Sir Theoric Hart, a stalwart among the Roem Knights, was studying him with an intent, calculating gaze.
“Rather than committing to an immediate assault, would it not be wiser to seal off the approaches to the fortress and assume a defensive posture? As for His Imperial Highness…”
The veteran knight chose his words gingerly, dragging them out with measured care.
“I believe we should leave room for terms. If this goes awry, Your Grace may well bear the blame for whatever befalls the Crown Prince.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I will not alter my course.”
Varkas spoke firmly, rising to his feet and picking up a stylus. He marked the key positions on the map that could serve as staging grounds and issued his orders.
“Divide the host in two. The main body will pitch camp here, to the south. The remainder will circle north and advance from the rear. For now, entrench yourselves at the mountain foot along the approach. The moment the signal flare rises, push into the pass at once.”
“As I have told you, that detour invites an ambu—”
“Enough of your meddling.”
Varkas cut Kylias off without mercy.
“I see little reason to weigh the counsel of a defeated soldier who delivered his Crown Prince into the enemy’s hands.”
The cold, quiet sting drained the color from the room. Not just Kylias, but every Roem knight present turned rigid.
Impervious to the biting frost in the air, Varkas continued without missing a beat.
“I will send out scouts beforehand to thoroughly comb the perimeter around the stronghold. Select the men.”
“I will assign our special task force to reconnoiter,” Daren offered, raising a hand from the side.
Varkas gave a brisk nod.
“Now that the broad strokes are laid, we are adjourned.”
At his unilateral dismissal, the commanders traded uneasy glances before rising from their seats one after another.
Varkas watched the lingering knights disperse before stepping out into the evening air.
Just then, Daren’s voice caught up with him from behind.
“Your Grace.”
Turning, Varkas found a troubled expression on his kinsman’s face.
Daren gestured toward the perimeter of the encampment. “May we have a word?”
Without a word, Varkas turned his steps toward the shadows.
Passing through the sea of pitched tents, they reached the quiet fringe of the basin where pitch-black darkness swallowed everything.
Daren kept stride in silence for a while before finally speaking as they reached the wooden palisade.
“…Do you truly mean to leave His Imperial Highness to his fate?”
Varkas looked up into the ink-black expanse of the sky, offering no answer.
Daren pressed on, his voice tight with anxiety. “None can deny that His Imperial Highness is reckless and undisciplined. But is the Second Prince any less of a hazard?”
The knight’s tone sank into deeper gravity.
“Senevier Taren stands behind the boy. The Empress will prove far more treacherous than the Crown Prince ever was.”
He hesitated, studying Varkas’s profile under the dim light, before adding softly, “Furthermore, did you not swear to the late Empress Bernadette that you would protect her son? If word spreads that you broke an oath bound to your very soul, it will be a fatal blemish upon your honor.”
“Is that all you came to say?”
Varkas unhooked the waterskin from his belt, wet his throat, and responded in a flat voice.
Daren’s voice turned fraught with frustration. “There are still many who revile Your Grace for unilaterally ending your betrothal to the First Princess. If you turn a blind eye to the Crown Prince on top of that, everyone will assume House Shearkan has thrown its lot in with the Empress.”
A brief, hollow scoff slipped from Varkas’s lips after enduring the long lecture.
“So you fear I will be branded a man who threw away loyalty and honor, all because I lost my head over the Empress’s daughter.”
Daren pressed his lips into a tight line, unable to offer either agreement or denial.
Capping the waterskin, Varkas pushed off from the timber fence.
“Rest easy. I will do nothing to tarnish the name of my house.”
“What does that mean…?”
Ignoring the question, Varkas turned back toward his quarters.
“I am going in. We must conserve what strength we have if we are to move at first light.”
He clapped a heavy hand on Daren’s shoulder, released it, and strode away through the darkened camp.
The following day, after leading the host north, Varkas called a halt at the foot of the mountain as the midday sun crested overhead.
In accordance with the previous night’s council, he divided his army, deploying the main host before the fortress gates while the detachment swung around the surrounding ridgeline toward the rear.
Before long, nearly fourteen thousand troops were maneuvering in disciplined order.
While the men entrenched the perimeter and assembled siege engines, Varkas led some thirty soldiers up the steep mountainside.
The terrain was jagged and sheer, entirely unfit for pitching camp, but ideal for a small detachment slipping past enemy sentries.
He ascended the near-vertical rock faces with fluid agility, signaling hand gestures to guide the men following in his wake.
How long had they climbed?
By the time the sun began its westward slant, they had reached an overlook commanding the enemy stronghold.
Standing atop a massive boulder, Varkas surveyed the layout of the fortress below with a calculating gaze.
“Could we not have left scouting the enemy camp to the scouts? Why go through such misery yourself, Commander?”
Edric Luvon, breathless from keeping pace, grumbled as though the logic escaped him.
Without answering, Varkas pointed further along the rugged track.
“A little further.”
With that, he began scaling the crags once more.
Reaching a sheltered vantage, he signaled the exhausted men to take their rest, then produced a roll of parchment from his tunic and began sketching the enemy’s fortifications.
The stronghold was exceptionally stout. The force garrisoned within far outstripped their initial estimates, and its defensive works were meticulously arranged.
‘This will not be simple.’
Clicking his tongue quietly, he dragged a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. Sensing eyes upon him, he glanced aside.
Edric, seated on the rock catching his breath, was staring at him intently.
Noticing the man’s gaze fixed on his waist, Varkas’s brows drew together.
“What are you looking at?”
“No, it’s just… you were so distant right up until our departure, so I was worried… but I suppose you gave it to her after all.”
Varkas narrowed his eyes at the baffling remark, glancing down at his hip.
Hanging from the belt his servant had laid out was a small pouch, finely embroidered in the Eastern style.
END