The Grey Ones
The Demons of the North: V

THE VASAATH

The kaseraad had done an excellent job mapping the city. It wasn’t the largest of cities, but it surely was packed like one—it was obvious where the majority of its people were housed, and it wasn’t in the fancier parts of the city.

The further up the hill the city stretched, the broader the streets, the wider the squares, and the larger the houses. Further down towards the harbour, the streets were narrow, crooked, and the houses were small and many.

If they could draw the forces to them and meet them in the narrow streets, they would have a good chance of winning this fight. Annexing the city was, however, another matter. Castle Fairgarden was resting atop the hill, secluded and fortified. They would have to face the forces head-on if they wanted to advance. They could lay siege to the fortress, but that could last all winter. They would not be able to breach the castle if a thousand guards defended it—they would need more soldiers for that.

It was a strange and outlandish feeling to him, uncertainty, but there was a troubling feeling inside of him that the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon hadn’t sent the forces yet. Had they even received his inquiry? He sent it with merchants he trusted, with men that had made the journey between Noxborough and Kasarath many times before, and with men that knew they would lose their heads if they failed him—but they hadn’t returned either. If they had been lost at sea, things were dire and the Vasaath had to make sure he would have the support he needed when he needed it.

He sent another inquiry that afternoon with one of his messenger birds, knowing that if this message didn’t reach Vas-an-arath in time, the battle would be lost.

He had gathered a war council with his highest-ranking officers, his kaseraad, and with Kasethen. Perhaps, if they all put their clever heads together, they could think of a way to beat the odds and defeat their enemies.

“What do we know of the Westbridge army?” the Vasaath asked.

“We know that both the Duke of Noxborough and the Duke of Westbridge left the city four days ago,” said one of the kaseraad. “We presume they left to meet the army.”

“Did anyone follow them?”

“Yes, we sent two riders.”

The Vasaath nodded. “Good. What about Fairgarden? Is there a way in?”

The spies all looked at each other before they said, “We haven’t found a way in yet, sir. It’s a highly secured fortress. The walls are high and the gates are heavy, but our ram should be able to break them open.”

“My lord,” said another spy. “We have noted rising unrest amongst the poorer citizens. They are on the brink, sir. It might be a good idea to use that unrest to our advantage. It will be more difficult for the guards to defend the city if the people are rebelling.”

“No, we cannot do that!” Kasethen’s voice was hard. “Sir, we have to think of a better, more sustainable way of taking this city. We need to do it before winter, and we need the city to be peaceful enough so that we can ship our old and our young here to spare them the cold. Or, at least we need the city to be cooperative enough to help us farm and ship resources to Kasarath.”

The Vasaath frowned deeply. He knew that Kasethen was right—it would take them a very long time, if not years, to bring order to a civil war. He grunted. “We did not come here to create chaos. We came to bring order. We need a better way.”

The spies all nodded.

The Vasaath looked at the map. “If we can concentrate the fighting to these narrow streets,” he said and pointed at the lower districts, “we could make away with as many guards as possible. It can’t fit more than, what? Two fighting men, in these alleyways? If we fight strategically, we can cut them down one by one and make our way towards the castle.”

“But how do we force them down here?” asked a rasaath. “They must know as well as we that we have the advantages here.”

“Unless they assume the offensive party,” said another officer.

“Yes,” said the Vasaath. “If they decide to be offensive, they might come here. They would have us trapped, and if we let ourselves be surrounded by six thousand men, we will be. We have to control this. We have to replace a way to make them come here, on our terms.”

“They have the larger number, sir,” said Kasethen. “They will be the ones making demands.”

“Then how can we turn the tables?” the Vasaath asked and frowned. He imagined six thousand men in plate armour marching towards them from all directions; if they had only attacked when they had their City Guards there! A thousand men was still a difficult battle, but it was manageable. He cursed himself for being arrogant, thinking that the Duke would never replace the aid of another city.

“My lord, if I may?” said a spy, and the Vasaath nodded. “There is a possible solution to this conundrum: we have leverage. They want the lady back, but we have her. Let’s use that to—”

“No.” The Vasaath had to restrain himself or else he’d lift the man by his throat for even suggesting such a thing. “We will not use the girl.”

“But, my lord,” the spy persisted, “surely the Duke would come to his daughter’s aid if—”

“Enough!” the Vasaath growled and glared at the spy, who shrunk under his stare, looked away, and answered, “yes, sir.”

Kasethen sighed. “The Vasaath is right, there is no point putting Lady Juniper at risk. Although I can understand your reasoning, kaseraad, we will lose the argument if they call our bluff.”

“I heard you mention my name, is there anything I can do?”

Her sweet voice sent shivers along his spine, sparking his desires, and all the Vasaath could think of was how she sang in bliss the night before. Turning and facing the girl who had just entered the tent unnoticeably, he couldn’t help but swoon, just a little.

For a second, there was no one else in the room but them, and he wanted to pull her in and kiss her deeply.

“My lady,” he said cordially. “We were in the middle of a council meeting. I’m sure it’s nothing of interest to you.”

“I am very sorry for my intrusion, sir,” she said with a quick curtsy, “I shall leave at once.”

“No,” said the Vasaath and gestured her to join them. “By all means, stay. You know your home better than we do—we could use your knowledge.”

The girl hesitated, but joined him obediently. He knew she wouldn’t be comfortable telling them the secrets she knew of the city, but perhaps there was something she was willing to give away.

“We were discussing—or rather, dismissing—the idea of using you as leverage, my lady,” said Kasethen and glared at the man giving the suggestion.

Juniper turned her head to the advisor and then nodded. “That would indeed be reasonable.” She turned her head to the map on the table. “You’re outnumbered and need as many advantages as possible.” Shaking her head, she said, “Westbridge has an Illyrian trained army, it will not be in your favour to meet their forces head-on. Unless…” She leaned forwards to examine the map closer. “You have missed the Mud Mire, right here.”

“The what?” the Vasaath asked and leaned over the map as well.

She pointed at a spot outside the edges of the map. “The Mud Mire. It’s by the delta east of the city. In summer, it’s quite dry, but the autumn rains should come over the mountains any day now, and then, it will quickly become a mud field.”

“We can’t fight in a mud field,” said one of the officers, and the others concurred.

“If you keep moving, you won’t sink,” said the girl. “They, on the other hand, wear heavy armour. They won’t be able to move around as easily, and they will be restricted and slowed compared to you. You might have a chance, then.”

The Vasaath looked at her, utterly surprised to hear her speak of war—not only with such wisdom and clarity, but also in their favour. “That is an excellent idea,” he said, “but the soldiers from Noxborough ought to know that as well?”

“I doubt the City Guard will leave the city, but my father knows about the Mud Mire. What they will do, however, depends on what they are willing to risk,” said Juniper. “West of here, the cliff sides go deep into the land in great gorges, and the cracks make the terrain deceitful. If the rain comes here in time, it will make the rocks slippery—deadly. Not a good place for a battle.”

She sighed, a crease forming between her eyebrows.

“If they wish to meet you head-on,” said she, “which they probably want since they outnumber you greatly, the only choices they have is either the rocks, or the Mud Mire.”

“And they would rather risk slipping in the mud than falling down a gorge,” the Vasaath nodded.

“Indeed,” said the girl.

The Vasaath huffed, but could not keep from smirking. “I thought women of your country weren’t allowed any knowledge of war.”

“I’ve spent my entire life listening to arrogant men trying to outdo each other in military strategy, sir,” said Juniper and straightened. “They all just presumed I wouldn’t understand.”

The Vasaath narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. “In your experience then, what are our chances?”

“With your current numbers? Slim, sir,” said the girl. “Your best chance is to avoid fighting the Westbridge army altogether.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?” the Vasaath asked.

“Well, you will have to convince Duke Cornwall that he is fighting a meaningless war,” said she. “The Duke of Westbridge would not send his forces all the way to Noxborough unless he was promised something in return. I am promised to his son and heir, and I would be his link to Noxborough, the gateway to the Winter Sea and a world of sea trade.” She smiled coyly. “So, you see, they don’t wish to save me because of chivalry, but because of the power my sons will have.”

“Yes, but my lady,” said Kasethen, “we have dismissed using you as bait—we wouldn’t want to risk your safety.”

“I won’t be bait,” said Juniper. “Let me be an emissary.”

The Vasaath knitted his brows and heard the men around him start to murmur something to each other. Cautiously, he asked her, “An emissary of what?”

“Of you, sir,” said she. “Send me to speak to them. Let the Duke of Westbridge know I was not abducted, and that I have abandoned my faith for the Kasenon. He is a god-fearing man, that would make me quite unfavourable in his eyes.”

“My lady, with all due respect,” said one of the officers, “you cannot convert without the Vasmenaan’s blessing.”

“No, indeed,” said the girl and smiled respectfully, “but they don’t know that.” She gestured at her clothing. “At least I look the part.”

The Vasaath squared his jaw. “No. I won’t send you.”

Juniper looked up at him, her wide silver eyes glittering. “My lord, if the promise can’t be fulfilled, Duke Cornwall has no gain in this. He would never fight another man’s war. He would never leave his city vulnerable for such a disappointment.”

“No.”

“The woman speaks sense, sir,” said a kaseraad. “If we have a chance of diminishing—”

“I will not send her.” His patience was quickly slipping, as was his temper. He clenched his fists, trying to compose himself. The argument was fruitless; he would not send Juniper—his Juniper—into such danger.

“You don’t understand how our politics work,” said she, agitation brewing just below the surface of her calm, sweet voice, “but I do. If I declare to them that I was not abducted, that I came here willingly, and that I am—”

“Enough!” his bark was meaner than he’d intended and caused everyone around the table to jolt. His patience, however, had run out. “I will hear no more of this!” He turned to the girl. “You are not an emissary, and you are certainly not a proven war diplomat! Why would I let you out? I might as well hand them the only leverage we have!”

The girl’s large silver eyes watered, her face turned pale, and he could see the hurt in her. He had done it again: he had treated her like a prisoner. Indeed, he had heard his own words, but he couldn’t stop them. And now, he couldn’t comfort her. Not in front of his men—but his heart ached. Could she not see that he was trying to protect her? That he was trying to keep her out of harm’s way?

Juniper looked away and quickly swept a hand over her cheeks. “Forgive me, sir. It was wrong of me to interfere.” She curtsied quickly before she turned on her heels and scurried out of the tent.

The Vasaath kept his gaze where she had disappeared, pondering about whether he should hurry after her or steel himself. Never before had he felt such regret in rebuking anyone. The girl had twisted him—ruptured him—possibly beyond repair.

The men were silent for a moment, all seemingly hesitant to say something else that could anger the Vasaath, before an officer said, “I still don’t think we should fight on a mud field, it’s too risky.” The other men sounded their agreement, and the discussion continued.