"What's the next step?" With the battlefield cleaned up, Ryan, Federmond, and Gerard gathered together. Federmond let out a sigh of relief. "Count Ocasen and his close aides are either dead or captured, not a single one escaped. Once the army crosses the Gris Mory River, taking Spire Palace with the dwarven cannons won't be a problem."
"Taking Spire Palace won't be an issue, the key is holding it," Gerard immediately countered. The paladin shook his head. "No, we can't rely on the dwarven cannons for this siege."
"Gerard is right. We can't use the dwarven cannons for this attack," Ryan agreed, taking a few steps forward. Morgiana's divine spells were wearing off, and the muddy swamp was starting to cause problems for the knights. "If we reduce Spire Palace to ruins, we won't be able to hold it when reinforcements from Mousilon arrive."
Federmond had to nod in agreement at this point.
The assembled army wasn't very large. Because Ryan launched the attack early, they couldn't mobilize the agricultural population, which would have affected the spring planting season. The participating duchies only sent part of their standing armies, along with knights and their squires, making a total force of just six thousand men.
Mousilon's undead didn't need to produce anything. Ryan conservatively estimated that they could field an army of twenty thousand undead.
Under these circumstances, strong fortifications and cannons were crucial. The vampires severely lacked long-range weapons, and they could only take hits from the dwarven cannons.
"We need to take the castle and avoid using cannons. Even though Count Ocasen and his close aides have been eliminated, we still need a special approach," Federmond, learning from Ryan, suggested. "Lord Ryan, if we can't storm it, then…"
"We need this." Ryan pulled out a signet ring.
The signet ring was taken from Ocasen's body, bearing the Ocasen family crest. "The plan to take Spire Palace quickly is right here. But we might need to inconvenience our dwarven friends a bit."
"No problem. We just need to offer our dwarven friends a drink afterwards," Sir Gerard sheathed his knight sword, smiling. "And with enough gifts, most dwarves won't hold a grudge."
Bretonnian knights had little knowledge of dwarves initially, but thanks to Ryan's connections, most knights in southern Bretonnia had experience dealing with dwarves. They learned to handle these stubborn, small-minded, and vengeful fellows.
"There's no time to lose. Let's escort the prisoners and meet up with Lady Morgiana!" Ryan commanded without further discussion. "Quickly!"
"Yes!"
...
February, cold weather, biting wind. Especially after a bizarre morning hailstorm, Spire Palace, once bustling, now seemed desolate, stripped of its vitality.
Spire Palace wasn't particularly large, nor exceptionally fortified, but it housed a significant garrison. The fertile swamps around it made any assault slow and difficult.
Duke Mathieu Bard of Mousilon knew Spire Palace's importance. He had stationed a considerable number of living troops there under Count Ocasen's command.
At the gate, a guard captain inspected the defenses. Dressed in chainmail with a chest plate and a warm fur cloak, he still shivered in the cold.
"Sir, this damned weather, it was raining, snowing, and hailing just now, and now it's sunny again," a pockmarked guard complained, his face showing signs of malnutrition, common among Mousilon's residents.
But he was better off than most in Mousilon.
"Who knows what's going on with the weather!" The guard captain warmed himself by a fire, a pot of thick frog meat soup simmering over it, a rare delicacy with some mushrooms and wild greens.
Mousilon's residents had learned to survive using the swamp's resources, gathering various mushrooms and greens, and primarily eating frogs, snails, and birds.
This led to a unique profession: swampmen, professional snail hunters and frog trappers, respected by the lords. Women marrying swampmen, called "frog wives," cleaned the snails and frogs and often gathered herbs.
"It's so cold! When is our shift over?" The guards complained about the weather, the smell of the frog soup making them unsteady on their feet.
"Stand firm!" The guard captain yelled impatiently. "This is the most critical time. Those southern knights could attack at any moment. We can't afford to be lax!"
"Yes, sir!" The guards reluctantly agreed, fearing punishment otherwise.
After a while, the guard captain finished his frog soup, feeling something was off. "Something is strange today. The changing weather, and the riverside posts and scouts haven't reported back. We haven't received any news."
"Isn't the count's winter hunt taking too long?" A guard asked.
"Winter hunt? You ignorant fools, what do you know? Two or three days is normal for a winter hunt," the guard captain scorned. "Don't speculate on the count's actions with your ignorance. Do you want to die?"
The guards fell silent.
After about twenty minutes, a large merchant caravan approached Spire Palace, drawing the guards' attention.
The caravan had over twenty wagons and forty people, loaded with grain and barrels of alcohol. The lead merchant, dressed in fine linen with a bear-skin coat, presented a trade contract and pass signed by Count Ocasen.
The guard captain examined the documents closely.
Everything checked out. Count Ocasen had indeed been importing grain from the Estalian Merchant Alliance. The whole palace knew the count was stockpiling supplies, preparing for a siege.
But the timing was suspicious. The guard captain thought it was too coincidental that the merchants arrived just as the count left for a hunt.
Despite his doubts, the guard captain didn't let the caravan through immediately. He signaled the guards to inspect the wagons: "Wait! Are you sure these are all grain?"
"Grain, vegetables, meat, and alcohol," the merchant replied. "Feel free to check."
"Search them!" The captain ordered, and the guards began inspecting every wagon, uncovering sacks and barrels.
After fifteen minutes, the guards reported back.
"No doubt, captain. The wagons are full of grain, vegetables, and meat!"
"Are you sure?"
"Positive! It's all grain," the guards confirmed.
Reluctantly, the guard captain nodded. "Alright, you may pass, but leave your weapons behind. Deliver the goods, settle the payment, and leave immediately. No loitering!"
"We understand. Who wants to stay in this place anyway?" The merchant complained. "If your count wasn't paying so well, who would come to this cursed place? Do I look like a fool?"
The caravan was finally allowed through, escorted by a large group of guards into the castle.
True to their word, the merchants unloaded their goods, collected their payment, and left within thirty minutes.
Before leaving, the guard captain counted the people again. The caravan entered with fifty-three men and left with fifty-three, all under constant guard surveillance.
As the merchant left, the guard captain apologized, "Sorry, Estalian, it's not personal. The situation is tense, and the southerners could attack anytime. The count is away…"
"I understand. As long as the money's good, everything's fine..." The merchant shrugged it off, and the caravan departed.
By the time they were gone, dusk had settled in. The cautious guard captain ordered his men to remain vigilant at all times, then returned to his tower to rest.
Night fell over Spire Palace, bringing a deep, cold silence. Most people were asleep, except for a few guards patrolling with torches.
At midnight, strange noises came from the warehouse filled with grain, vegetables, and meat.
The giant barrels of beer began to stir.
A burly arm emerged from a barrel. Belegar, King of the Angrund Clan of Karak Eight Peaks, let out a breath and opened the barrel lid. "Alright, lads, time to get to work!"
"Ohhh!" Dozens of barrels opened, and a group of dwarves climbed out. Dressed in simple armor and armed with axes or hammers, they grumbled as they emerged. "Damn it, how could Count Ryan make noble dwarves do this!"
"Yeah, being smuggled in barrels is disrespectful!"
"Tight and no ventilation!"
"And we couldn't wear our heavy armor!"
The dwarves, Belegar's oath-guard, voiced their complaints.
The large barrels had double walls, hiding the dwarves inside. The barrels appeared oversized because they contained both beer and dwarves.
"Alright, guys, Count Ryan promised us two barrels of malt beer and five pounds of pork each once we're done," Belegar stroked his beard, raising his Angrund hammer. "And he promised to fund our brewery expansion!"
The dwarves fell silent.
"No choice. Brother Ryan really needs our help, so let's give him some face!"
"For the beer and meat, we'll help him this time!"
"Can't do without dwarven help. Brother Ryan is in a tight spot. We understand."
Belegar's oath-guard expressed their generous spirit and prepared to act.
"Harghaf, you take your men and set fire to the barracks to cause chaos. Slurd, you come with me. We'll take the gate and let Brother Ryan's army in," Belegar ordered his oath-guard, splitting them into two teams: one to attack the barracks and start fires, distracting the guards, and the other to attack the gate guards.
"Yes, sir!"
"Alright, lads, follow me. Let's get to work!"
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