While the Lord is occupied with the Spear of Longinus, the Emperor's Crusade continues its destructive march. The Emperor is laying siege to the main citadel city of the Blood Sultanate and its ruler, Sultan Achim.
The siege has dragged on, and the Emperor is apparently facing serious difficulties. Consequently, envoys have arrived to the Lord of the North with an official request to march out and provide military assistance. The Lord once again convenes his council at the "Honey Mug" to discuss the Emperor's unexpected plea for military aid in the protracted siege of the Sultanate. On the agenda is his decision on how to respond to this call.
The Lord faces the following options:
Fully answer the Emperor's call: Send significant forces to aid in the siege.
Refuse the Emperor: Politely but firmly decline the request, citing internal affairs or other reasons.
Provide aid on his own terms: Offer support in exchange for specific concessions, privileges, or resources from the Emperor.
Sabotage both sides: Exploit the situation to weaken both the Emperor and the Sultanate without engaging in open conflict.
"You think like a true Lord of the North—pragmatic and far-sighted," said Green, studying the Lord's face. "Your concern that the Emperor, having failed at the walls of the Sultanate, might turn his army against your 'Honey Mug' is entirely justified. This is a significant factor that must be considered when making a decision."
Green fully shares the Lord's apprehension. For him, it is a matter of preventing a direct threat to his fortress and army. "My Lord, you are absolutely right," Green said. "A weakened but not broken Emperor will look for someone to blame, and our independence could become the cause of his wrath. It is far safer for us to control the situation from a distance than to await a direct invasion."
"We must offer assistance, but with conditions that will strengthen us as much as possible and weaken the Emperor, without dragging us into a grueling war," Green recommended. "Sending the 'Legion of the Dead' for a decisive assault could end the siege quickly, but it would come at a great cost. It would be better to offer our help as a key 'strike force' for a breakthrough or to suppress specific pockets of resistance, rather than for the entire campaign. And we must be sure to negotiate for territorial or trade concessions, as well as full recognition of our autonomy, backed by a treaty."
Father Tuck saw this as an excellent opportunity for manipulation and for strengthening your influence, both ecclesiastical and political. "The Emperor and the Church always strive for complete control, my Lord," said Father Tuck. "Your wisdom allows you to foresee their next move. If the Sultanate falls without our help, the Emperor will feel omnipotent. If he is defeated, he will become a dangerous, wounded beast."
"We must intervene," he recommended. "This will give us a reason to show our 'loyalty' to the world, while simultaneously demonstrating our overwhelming power. I can spread rumors in church circles that our intervention is divine providence, that we are instruments of a higher will, saving the Empire from disaster. This will strengthen your position as the 'chosen one' among the people. Furthermore, we can bargain with the Emperor for ecclesiastical privileges for our diocese, or even demand that certain church lands be placed under our protectorate in exchange for our help."
Hassan thought of the trade routes, the flow of gold, and how to maximize profit while avoiding unnecessary publicity. "Lord, if the Emperor returns with nothing, he will be hungry. Hungry rulers make bad neighbors. They look for someone to prey upon. Our impregnability is good, but war always means the destruction of trade routes. It is better to avoid it," said Hassan.
"If we get involved, it must be the most profitable investment," he recommended. "We are not just helping the Emperor; we are buying his loyalty and his silence about our affairs. We need to negotiate for exclusive trade preferences in the East, a monopoly on certain goods, or even the right to unhindered transit through imperial lands, without customs, as payment for our assistance. At the same time, our warriors must act effectively, but in such a way as to minimize losses and not reveal too many of our secret technologies. Let them see our power, but not understand it."
Katya, the Lord's wife, was thinking about the well-being of his people and the reputation of their dynasty. "My Lord, the people are tired of anxieties. If war comes to us, it will mean new victims and destruction," she said. "It is better to prevent it than to rebuild afterward. However, sending our sons to a foreign war is also a heavy burden."
"If we go to help, it must be a swift and decisive intervention to minimize losses," Katya recommended. "And in return, we must demand from the Emperor guarantees of security for our lands, perhaps even recognition of our merchants' right to free movement and trade without obstacles. It is important that the people see this as your wisdom and concern for their safety, not just submission to the Emperor."
Inga would not offer pragmatic advice, but her words would serve as a warning and an indication of a deeper meaning. "The shadow cast by failure can turn against the one who did not offer help," Inga said, gazing at the Lord. "But all help has a price, one that cannot always be measured in gold. The Spear feels the tension in the air. It knows that this choice affects many things..."
"Remember, Lord, the Spear is a tool," she recommended. "If you use its power to help the Emperor, what will be the true cost of that help? Do not let the power of the Spear cloud your own judgment. Choose the path that not only protects your lands but also preserves the balance in your soul."
The Lord's plan is clear: if the Emperor cannot handle a city of heretics, his assistance must be decisive, demonstrating his unsurpassed power and securing him undeniable advantages. He intends to use this campaign to strengthen his position, expand his influence, and possibly gain new privileges from a weakening Emperor.
At dawn, as the first rays of the sun barely touched the peaks of the Mountain Ridge, the "Honey Mug" stirred. On the orders of the Lord of the North, all his best troops were assembling, the embodiment of his unique power and pragmatic genius.
The "Legion of the Dead"—heavy infantry fully clad in armor, warriors who knew no fear or pain—formed up like a formidable wall. Their silent, intimidating presence spoke of determination and inevitability. Behind them were the mobile "Death Squads": swift life-hussars ready for sudden strikes, the disciplined "Black Squad" with their bayonets, grenadiers whose incendiary projectiles could turn any defense to flame, and modernized archers with optical sights, capable of hitting a target with incredible accuracy.
Near the army, under the cover of the pre-dawn mist, the Lord of the North's secret technologies were being loaded onto wagons: mortars capable of destroying walls and sacks of gunpowder promising a fiery hell to the enemy. A whisper about a primitive hot-air balloon that would be sent ahead for reconnaissance spread among the officers, adding to the sense of superiority.
The Lord himself stood at the head of this mighty host. His face was impenetrable, but a fire of resolve burned within him. He did not believe in magic, but he felt the pull of the Spear of Longinus, which was now in his hands, its ancient wisdom intertwining with his pragmatic will. He was not going to save the Emperor out of nobility, but to ensure the complete surrender of the Sultan, to strengthen his own power, and to make sure his assistance was presented in the most favorable light possible.
With the first ray of sun cutting through the darkness, the signal was given. The roar of thousands of boots and hooves, the creak of wagons, and the clash of steel filled the mountain gorge. The Lord's army, like an animated hammer, moved east toward the besieged capital of the Sultanate. The Crusade, which had dragged on for the Emperor, was about to be concluded by his decisive intervention.
The journey was long, but thanks to well-organized logistics and the discipline of his troops, the Lord moved quickly. Katya, managing his lands, and his advisors—Green, Father Tuck, and Hassan—each in their own way, ensured an uninterrupted supply chain and the gathering of information. Rumors of his advance preceded him, spreading through the lands of the Empire, reaching the ears of the Emperor and the Sultan.
The Lord's army, like a phantom current, moves silently through the outskirts of the besieged city. Without wasting time, he gives the order: to occupy the most elevated territory around the Sultanate's capital. This decision is a classic move by a pragmatic strategist. The high ground provides an undeniable advantage: a full view of the battlefield, convenient positions for mortars and archers with optical sights, and the ability to better control approaches and defend in case of a counterattack.
Soon, on the heights, like ominous ghosts, the silhouettes of the "Legion of the Dead" and the grenadier squads begin to appear. The imperial troops, camped at the city walls, have surely noticed the appearance of the Lord's army. A wave of surprise and, perhaps, anxiety runs through them. They have grown accustomed to the long, grueling siege, and now a new, unknown force has appeared on the horizon.
Green, with his pragmatic outlook and military experience, confirms the Lord's concerns. He looks down at the capital of the Sultanate from the high ground his army has occupied, and his assessment is grim but realistic: "My Lord," Green says, pointing to the walls stretching far below, "this is a huge city. Our mortars will certainly create breaches, but hundreds of defenders will stand behind each one. They will fight desperately, and breaking through the city streets will turn into a bloodbath for us. Their numbers and knowledge of the terrain are a serious advantage."
Green's words underscore the scale of the task. Simply breaching the walls is not enough. A different, more sophisticated plan is needed to break the will of the defenders and ensure the "complete surrender of the Sultan," as the Lord desires.
A tense silence hung over the imperial camp and the besieged city as the Lord gave his order. There were no trumpet calls or drumbeats. Instead, from the high ground where his army was positioned, an unfamiliar, deep roar was heard. The mortars, his secret weapons, began their work. The first shells, tracing wide arcs in the sky, crashed down on the massive walls of the Sultanate's capital with a deafening roar. The extraordinary power and accuracy of the gunpowder-filled shells were evident: the stonework shattered like cardboard, leaving gaping holes. The defenders on the walls were stunned—they had not expected such an onslaught.
The imperial troops, watching from below, froze in amazement. They saw what they had been trying to do for months accomplished by the Lord's artillery in a matter of minutes. A sense of involuntary admiration and, perhaps, alarm at the realization of his overwhelming technological might grew among them.
Despite the breached walls, his troops remained in their positions. The "Legion of the Dead" stood motionless as rocks, the "Death Squads" waited at the ready, but the order to storm was not given. The Lord was in no hurry to throw his best warriors into the bloody fray at the breaches, where, as Green had warned, hundreds of desperate defenders awaited them. Instead, he and his commanders, positioned on the high ground, carefully watched the imperials' battles. His modernized archers with optical sights could see every skirmish at the breaches, every movement of the defenders. The Lord was allowing the imperial troops to test the Sultanate's defenses themselves, depleting their forces and revealing weak points. The siege had turned into a spectator event, where the Lord's mortars were the conductors, and the imperial troops were the main actors.
The Lord of the North himself, from his high observation post, saw everything as if it were in the palm of his hand. His mortars had breached the walls, but the scene unfolding at the breaches confirmed Green's fears. Through the gaping holes, like a stream, poured the imperial troops, full of hope for a quick victory. But their impulse immediately met the steel will of the Sultan's army. The narrow passages created by the shell impacts turned into death traps. The Sultan's warriors, knowing their land perfectly and using every stone as cover, formed a dense line, inflicting minimal losses on themselves while effectively stopping every imperial assault. The slaughter in the breaches continued, exhausting the Emperor's forces but not bringing him the desired breakthrough.
The Lord looks at the Sultan's city, and before his mind's eye, scenes of hundreds of past sieges unfold—histories from the depths of ages that the Spear of Longinus, his new silent mentor, has embedded in his mind. He sees not just walls and towers, but a complex network of streets, alleys, and houses, each of which can become a deadly trap. He understands the fanaticism of the defenders, their readiness to fight to the last breath, because this is their home, their faith, their last stand.
"This is a mirror of my own fortress," a thought flashes, sharp and clear. The Lord would defend the "Honey Mug" in exactly the same way: with ruthless determination, using every cover, every narrow bottleneck of a street to crush the attackers. He understands that a simple assault, even after the destruction of the walls by mortars, would not just be a bloodbath, but a senseless waste of his precious, unique troops. His warriors, who are more valuable to him than gold, cannot be thrown into such a meat grinder. The Lord's pragmatism, enhanced by the historical wisdom of the Spear, rejects a head-on collision. He had already seen how the imperials had choked in the narrow breaches. He needs not just a victory, but a quick, decisive, and clean surrender, achieved with minimal losses.
The Lord's view of the besieged city and his understanding of its internal defenses, enhanced by the wisdom of the Spear, led him to the only correct, pragmatic decision. Why break walls and spill blood when you can undermine the enemy from within? He remembers his extensive connections in the "shadow heart" of the Empire, the threads of shadow trade that converge in his "Honey Mug," and, of course, the Thieves' Guild. It is the perfect tool for working in the shadows, for subversion from within.
Orders were given immediately. The most trusted and discreet agents from the Lord's intelligence network are summoned, those who have direct contact with the Thieves' Guild in the Sultanate or are capable of establishing it. The task is clear: to establish secret negotiations with the Sultan's internal opposition, with those who are tired of the siege, of Achim's fanaticism, or simply crave power and are ready to betray.
The goal of the negotiations: the Lord is not offering simple escape or sabotage. He is offering a deal: guarantees of life, preservation of property, perhaps even certain privileges or posts in the new administration after the Sultan's fall. The main thing is to ensure the internal collapse of the resistance, to open the gates or neutralize key defense points without a direct assault. The Lord's agents depart, hiding under the cover of night or using trade caravans to infiltrate the besieged city. His decision is not just a military, but also a political and informational strike.
The Lord of the North has taken the position of a master over a chessboard. His troops, standing on the high ground, continue to inspire awe with their appearance and silent presence. The mortars remain ready, their barrels aimed at the city, but they are silent, like slumbering dragons. Under various pretexts—be it "regrouping," "studying the weak points of the defense," "awaiting the optimal moment for a decisive strike," or even "preparing a special, powerful weapon"—he skillfully buys time. His army does not take part in the exhausting assaults that continue to falter in the breaches, depleting the Emperor's forces.
Days turn into weeks. The imperial commanders begin to grumble, their patience wearing thin. They see the Lord's unshakeable army, its deadly machines, but do not understand why he is inactive. Some send envoys to him with questions, demands, and even veiled threats. The Emperor himself may be expressing his displeasure, but the Lord's reputation and the demonstration of the mortars' power do not allow him to press too hard. He is forced to rely on him, waiting for that "decisive" help.
Meanwhile, inside the besieged city, his informants and members of the Thieves' Guild make their way through the chaos and despair. They are looking for those who are willing to listen, whose patience has run out, who see the futility of fighting against the overwhelming force waiting outside the walls. Every failed imperial attack, every hungry day, every new victim works for the Lord, weakening the will to resist and strengthening the position of the opposition. He is waiting for a signal. The Lord of the North waits for the seeds of betrayal to sprout and the will of the defenders to be broken from within.
Several agonizing weeks passed. While the imperial troops continued their senseless attacks, crashing against the staunch defense of the Sultanate, and the Emperor presumably gritted his teeth at the apparent inaction, a guest arrived at the Lord's camp under the cover of night, using secret paths established by the Thieves' Guild.
The Lord's informants had worked flawlessly. Arriving for a secret meeting, deep inside his campaign tent where no imperial could have entered unnoticed, was none other than General Morsh ibn Ska—one of the key military leaders of the Sultanate. His appearance was haggard, but his eyes burned with cold determination. He was the personification of the fatigue and despair that had gripped the city, and likely the bearer of the very disagreements that the Lord had so skillfully fomented. The appearance of such a high-ranking figure confirmed the Lord's calculation: the Sultan's resistance had indeed begun to crumble from within. Now he stood on the threshold of a decisive moment.
The Lord's gaze did not waver as General Morsh ibn Ska revealed his cards. "Sultan Achim is preparing to flee and abandon the besieged city," were the words that confirmed the boldest calculations. The general, tired of the senseless war and seeing the imminent end of Achim's rule, is ready to betray his master to secure his own power. This is the ideal ally.
The Lord listened to him attentively, his thoughts revolving around how to turn this betrayal into his unconditional victory. The Spear of Longinus, which was now a part of him, perhaps suggested not only historical precedents for such deals but also gave a deep understanding of the general's psychology and weaknesses. He craved power, but also sought guarantees.
"General Morsh," the Lord began, his voice calm but imbued with unshakable confidence. "You and I understand that Sultan Achim is a coward and a weakling. His time is up. When he flees, the city will be left without a ruler. The Emperor, blinded by the thirst for an easy victory, will enter the city, but soon his army will move on to its other goals, leaving behind only ruins and chaos. The imperials will not linger here for long; they need a triumph, not the administration of a ruined city."
He paused, allowing his words to sink into the general's mind. "And then," the Lord continued, "when the imperial army leaves the city, you, General Morsh ibn Ska, will become the sole governor of this capital. I guarantee it. Your power will be indisputable. And since the Emperor will be far away, busy with his own affairs and content with his 'victory,' you will effectively rule the city yourself. My Mountain Empire, located in the mountains, will not interfere in your internal affairs as long as you keep your word."
General Morsh ibn Ska listens attentively, his eyes widening in anticipation. This is exactly what he had dreamed of—not just surviving the siege, but emerging from it with real power, free from the direct dictate of the Emperor or a new, foreign sultan. Your offer sounds incredibly tempting, for the Lord does not claim direct occupation but offers him self-governance under his shadow guarantee.
The Lord looks at General Morsh ibn Ska, and there is not a shadow of a doubt on his face. He does not offer him blood oaths or treaties inscribed on parchment. His guarantee is his own strength, his reputation, and the fact that the general is now sitting in his tent while the imperial troops are bleeding out under the walls.
"General Morsh," the Lord said, his voice not rising, but each word landing like a heavy stone. "My troops are here; they have carried this siege on their shoulders. My mortars breached your walls while the imperials have been beating against them powerlessly for months. I could have taken your city by storm at any moment, but I did not."
The Lord paused for a moment, letting him absorb every word. "The fact that you and I are having this conversation now, and that my army has remained on the sidelines of this useless slaughter all this time, speaks volumes. It speaks of my strength, of my ability to achieve goals not just with brute force, but with intellect. It says that my words are not empty promises."
General Morsh ibn Ska nods, his eyes intently following the Lord. He understands. The Lord's unshakeable power, demonstrated without a single assault, his strategic patience that allowed the Emperor to weaken and his own Sultan to prepare for flight—all this speaks more clearly than any oath of his ability to deliver on his promises. He sees in the Lord not just a conqueror, but a pragmatic, powerful ally, capable of keeping his word because it is advantageous to him.
The Lord nods in approval. General Morsh ibn Ska, looking at him with a new, respectful determination, hangs on his every word. They bent over the maps—the strategy was not just military; it was a carefully orchestrated performance designed to deceive the Emperor and ensure the Lord's complete victory with minimal losses.
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