TSA: Chapter Thirty-Nine: Vanguard

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Vanguard

The conquest of a bastioned keep is an intricate dance of strategy, patience, and calculated ferocity. These fortifications, with their angled walls and protruding bastions, are designed to deflect both projectiles and direct assaults, presenting formidable challenges to any besieger. Yet, history has shown that no fortress is impervious to ingenuity and persistence.

To begin, understanding the terrain is paramount. A keep often derives its strength from its surroundings—rivers, hills, and forests—which can hinder or conceal an army. The besieger must isolate the keep, severing it from supplies and reinforcements through fortified lines of circumvallation and contravallation.

When direct assault is unwise, undermining becomes essential. Tunnels dug beneath bastions can cause walls to collapse if properly executed, though secrecy is critical to prevent detection by the defenders. Siege engines such as cannons and storming towers are invaluable in breaching walls, but their deployment demands precision and protection from counterattacks.

Psychological warfare plays no small part. Fire—whether flaming arrows or pots of burning pitch thrown with trebuchets—and threats to the countryside can demoralize defenders, while starvation grinds down their resolve over time. Deception, too, is a potent weapon: false messages, spies, or bribes can turn the tide without a single sword being drawn.

If all else fails, the final assault must be coordinated with care. Bastioned keeps demand simultaneous attacks on multiple fronts to divide and overwhelm defenders. Losses will be severe, but a relentless and disciplined approach often leads to victory.

Yet, a wise commander must weigh the cost. The destruction wrought by a siege, both to the keep and its surroundings, may render the prize scarcely worth the effort. Diplomacy, treachery, or negotiation may often achieve the same end at a fraction of the price.

…

—Excerpt from Tyrell Quentil’s Treatise on the Methods of Taking a Bastioned Keep.

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Pyrga, 4th Moon, 30th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

The brig slid into the bustling harbour of Pyrga under a sky bruised with the colours of dusk. The sea whispered against the hull as the ship drew close to the dock, its sails furled and its oars cutting through the dark water with steady rhythm. Pyrga’s waterfront was alive with the sounds of trade and toil: the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the shouts of merchants hawking their wares, and the distant hum of voices carrying on the wind.

Lord Aden von Grifenburg stood at the prow, cloaked and hooded to obscure his features. Beside him, three knights in plain but serviceable mail maintained a discreet distance. The sigils of Faywyn had been stripped from their armour, their tabards left behind to ensure no prying eyes traced their presence back to the von Grifenburgs. Even in a city as far from Faywyn as Pyrga, caution was a currency Aden spent freely.

The brig moored with practised ease, its crew working quickly to secure the lines. Aden descended the gangplank with a measured step, his boots striking the wood with quiet confidence. The docks were a chaotic tangle of activity, with sailors unloading cargo and dockhands arguing over weights and measures. The air was thick with the scent of brine, fish, and the faint tang of rotting wood.

The knights formed a loose perimeter around Aden as they moved into the heart of the town. Pyrga was a town of contrasts: narrow, winding streets where shadowed alleys gave way to bursts of colour and life in the form of market stalls and taverns. Above it all loomed the hilltop keep, a reminder of the local lord’s dominion over this vital port at the edge of the Dovan Pass.

“Stay close,” Aden murmured, his voice low but firm. The knights nodded, their hands never straying far from their sword hilts as they wove through the crowds.

At a small square just off the main thoroughfare, Aden paused. Here, the din of the harbour faded slightly, replaced by the more intimate bustle of vendors selling dried meats, wool cloaks, and trinkets carved from driftwood. A weathered sign hung above a low-roofed building at the square’s edge, its paint faded but legible: The Farrier’s Rest.

“This will do,” Aden said, leading the group toward the inn. Inside, the air was warm and thick with the scent of stew and pipe smoke. Patrons sat clustered at rough-hewn tables, their voices a murmur beneath the crackle of the hearth. A stout woman with sharp eyes manned the counter, her hands busy polishing a wooden mug that looked as old as the building itself.

Aden approached, lowering his hood just enough to show his face without inviting undue attention. “A private room, if you have one,” he said, sliding a silver stag across the counter. The woman’s eyes flicked to the coin, then back to Aden, her expression impassive.

“Upstairs, second door on the left,” she said, pocketing the coin. “I’ll send someone up if you need anything.”

Aden nodded and led the knights up the narrow stairs. The room was small but clean, its single window overlooking the square below. Once inside, Aden turned to the knights. “Wait here,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

“My lord,” Ser Alric began, his brow furrowed, “are you certain you wish to go alone?”

“I am,” Aden replied. “Your presence would draw more eyes than I can afford. Stay. Be ready to leave when I return.”

The knights exchanged glances but obeyed, their silence marked by reluctant respect.

Aden descended the stairs and slipped back into the night. He moved through the streets with purpose, his cloak drawn tightly around him. At the edge of the market square, he found what he was looking for: a stableyard lit by a single lantern. A wiry man with a face like a weathered boot stood leaning against the fence, chewing on a stalk of hay.

“Looking for horses, are you?” the man asked, his voice rough but not unkind.

“No,” Aden said. “Something faster. A coach, perhaps, or a guide who knows the Dovan Pass well.”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Redwynd, is it? Or farther east?”

Aden held his gaze. “Redwynd,” he said. “And quickly.”

The man spat the hay stalk into the dirt and straightened. “I know a man,” he said. “Drives a swift team. Keeps to himself, but he’ll get you there if the coin’s right.”

“How much?”

The man named his price, and Aden nodded. “Have him ready at dawn,” he said, passing the man another silver Thale. “Tell him to meet me at The Farrier’s Rest.”

The man pocketed the coin with a curt nod. “He’ll be there. Just don’t ask him to linger. Redwynd’s a hard place to be caught uninvited.”

Aden said nothing as he turned and made his way back to the inn. Inside, the hearth’s warmth felt stifling after the night’s chill. He climbed the stairs to the room, where the knights sat waiting in stoic silence.

“It’s arranged,” Aden said simply, lowering himself into a chair by the window. He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the dark streets below. His thoughts wandered to Faywyn, to Levi, and to the plans he had left in his son’s hands.

What are you up to, lad? Aden wondered, his fingers tracing the edge of the chair’s armrest. What trouble have you stirred in my absence?

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Faywyn

The Codfather rocked gently on the quiet waters, the waves’ rhythmic lapping muffled by the heavy cloak of night. The moon hung low, its silver glow veiled by drifting clouds, and the air carried the tang of salt and tar. In the captain’s cabin, a group of men gathered around a crude wooden table, its surface uneven but serviceable. A single hooded lantern illuminated the faces bent toward the centre, where a map of Ricos lay pinned by small stones to keep it from the night’s breeze slithering in from the open windows.

Levi stood at the table’s head, his hands resting lightly on its edges. His gaze was sharp, the faint lines of tension at his brow betraying the gravity of the night. The knights—Ser Justin foremost among them—watched him in silence, their cloaks pulled tight against the chill. Nearby, the helmsman, the mason, and the two wrights lingered at the edges of the lantern’s light, their faces shadowed but calm. They knew their tasks; it was the knights who needed to hear the plan.

“You’ve been called here for a reason,” Levi said, his voice low and even, though the words carried easily over the murmuring sea. “Weeks ago, we struck Ricos’ harbour. Tonight, we prepare for the next blow. This time, it is not their ships or their docks, but their walls.”

The table creaked faintly as Ser Justin shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing. He said nothing, but Levi could see the questions forming. He gestured to the map, his fingers tracing the dark lines that marked Ricos’ defences.

“It has come to my attention that Tristan’s next ploy against Faywyn lies in this town,” Levi continued. “Hence, given my treasury cannot afford a prolonged siege, nor change the people of Faywyn be forced to endure another major battle, I intend for you to soften the town’s defences in advance of our main army. Their bastion wall shields the keep. If we are to take the town cheaply, that wall must fall. The mason, Edran, is well-versed in similar constructions. He would know where to strike. You would be tasked with escorting a wagon bearing a load of black powder to Ricos where it may be used to great effect against the fortification. The wrights will ready the prefabricated wagon on-site as transporting one whole would be too cumbersome, and the helmsman will see you there and back. Your task is to protect them and see the charge delivered.”

A murmur rose among the knights, soft and uncertain. Levi’s voice cut through it, calm but brokering no dissent. “You will enter the town as merchants. The wagon will carry barrels of powder disguised among more mundane wares. Once inside, you will await the mason’s instructions. He will choose the spot. You will set the charge and detonate it. 

“If you are discovered,” Levi continued, his gaze meeting Justin’s, “I trust you to apply your discretion. Violence is a last resort, but if it comes to that, do what you must to protect the mission. Yet, should it prove impossible to accomplish, abandon the mission. I will not have you throwing yourselves away.”

Levi turned to the helmsman standing in the rear. “You will see the brig to a point beyond Ricos’ sightline where the men may disembark. Anchor there and wait. Once the charge is set and detonated, you will retrieve my knights and their company and return them to Faywyn.”

The knights exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from grim resolve to faint apprehension. Levi straightened, his hands leaving the table to clasp behind his back.

“You leave tonight,” he said to their continued surprise. “Messenger pigeons would be provided to you so you may communicate your progress to me at your discretion. The brig will have you at the drop-off point by the next night. From there, the wrights have three days to ready the wagon, and you to plan your entry. Once the wall is breached, retreat immediately. No lingering, no heroics. Is that understood?”

A chorus of “Aye, my lord” rose from the group, though Ser Justin’s voice was the loudest. Levi’s gaze lingered on him, his trust in the veteran saboteur unspoken but clear.

“Good,” Levi said, his tone softening. “You are the best I have. I trust you to see this through. May the ancestors watch over you all.”

The men saluted, their fists striking their chests in unison. As they turned to make their preparations, Ser Carter approached Levi, his steps slow and deliberate.

“You’ve given them a hard task,” Carter said, his voice low. “But they are a reliable bunch. they’ll see it through.”

Levi nodded, though his gaze was distant, fixed on the dark horizon. “I know. But even the best plans can falter. Let us hope this one does not.”