The Grand Strategist's Gamble

The Unorthodox First Strike

The next thirty-six hours were a masterclass in controlled tension. Northpass keep existed in a state of repeated actions, every eye turned toward the southern road. Kaelan moved through the fortress with a calm that was unnerving to everyone, including himself. His Enhanced Calculation was a constant voice in the back of his mind, running scenarios, probabilities, and resource allocations.

He spent his time not with the soldiers, but with the blacksmith, a hulking, silent man named Borin.

"We need these," Kaelan said, handing over a charcoal sketch on a piece of scrap paper. It depicted a four-pronged metal star, each point sharpened to a vicious tip.

Borin frowned, turning the wood over in his soot-stained hands. "What is it? A child's throwing star? It's a waste of good iron."

"It's called a caltrop," Kaelan explained patiently. "No matter how you throw it, one point always faces up. I need two hundred of them. Use the scrap from the broken cart's rod. They don't need to be pretty, they just need to be sharp."

He then went to the carpenters, directing them not to reinforce the main gate, but to dig a series of precisely measured, deep pits along the main approach to the fortress, camouflaging them with a piling of weak branches and dirt. The men worked with sullen confusion, but they worked. Action, even seemingly pointless action, was a potent antidote to despair.

Roderick and Eldric watched from a distance, their arms crossed. They said nothing, but their skepticism was a physical presence in the courtyard. Every time a scout reported no sign of the Viscount's envoy, their glares grew darker.

Kaelan ignored them. His focus was absolute. The System provided a quiet, running commentary.

[Fortification Project: Pit Traps - 87% Complete.]

[Munitions Project: Caltrops - 45% Complete.]

[Morale Index of Garrison: Low. Trend: Stable.]

Stable was good. Stable meant they hadn't mutinied. Yet.

On the morning of the second day, a cry came from the watchtower. "Rider on the southern road! A single rider!"

For a heart-lifting moment, Kaelan thought it was his stable boy returning. But the watchman's next call dashed that hope. "It's the boy! But... he's being followed! A column of soldiers! Fifty strong! They're flying the Riverweald banner!"

A cold fist clenched in Kaelan's gut. Scenario 3, his mind supplied instantly. Viscount chooses overt aggression. Probability of armed engagement: 98%.

Roderick spun on him, his face a thundercloud. "You fool! You've brought his army down on us! I knew it!" He drew his sword. "To arms! Man the walls!"

"Hold!" Kaelan's voice, though not a shout, carried a ring of command that made the rushing men hesitate. He turned to the watchtower. "Describe the column! Are they in battle formation?"

A pause. Then, "No, my lord! They're marching in a column... and there are carts! Wagons!"

Wagons. Kaelan's heart skipped a beat. He looked at Roderick, whose sword was still half-drawn. "He wouldn't bring wagons to a fight. The grain is with them."

"Or it's a trick to make us lower our guard!" Roderick countered, but the certainty in his voice was gone.

"Sergeant Alaric," Kaelan commanded, his voice crisp. "You have your best ten crossbowmen on the stable roof, as before. The rest of the men are to form up behind the gate, out of sight. No one is to show themselves on the walls. No one. Is that clear?"

Alaric, for the first time, looked at Kaelan not with contempt, but with the beginnings of professional curiosity. "Aye, my lord." He turned and started bellowing orders.

Kaelan, with his brothers trailing him in a state of furious confusion, ascended the wooden steps to the gatehouse railing. He looked down the road.

It was just as the watchman had said. His stable boy, looking terrified, was riding hard for the gate. Behind him, marching in a disciplined column, were fifty of the Viscount's soldiers in polished chainmail, their spears a forest of steel. And behind them, creaking and groaning, were five heavy-laden grain wagons. But at the head of the column, riding a sleek chestnut warhorse, was a captain whose face was set in a permanent sneer. He was the same captain who had led the previous grain escorts, a man known for his arrogance and his casual cruelty.

The stable boy galloped through the open gate, gasping. "My lord! He read your letter, he went purple, then he laughed! He said he would bring the grain himself and... and 'inspect the new management'!"

The Viscount hadn't come himself. He'd sent his attack dog.

The column halted just outside arrow range. The captain, a man named Vorlick, stood in his stirrups, his voice booming across the field.

"Northpass! Your Baron is dead, and a child sits in his hall! By the authority of Viscount Valerius, I am here to collect on your outstanding debts and assess the keep's readiness! Open this gate and surrender authority, or we will take it by force!"

Roderick's hand went to his sword hilt again, but Kaelan placed a restraining hand on his arm. His mind was a whirlwind. Target: Captain Vorlick. Profile: Aggressive, proud, underestimates opposition. Objective: Force a retreat without open battle.

Kaelan leaned over the railings, his voice calm and projecting. "Captain Vorlick. Your grain delivery is late. My men are hungry. You may leave the wagons and depart. Your... inspection... is not required."

Vorlick laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Or what, little lord? You'll throw your toys at me? I see your pitiful traps. My men aren't goblins to be fooled by such childish tricks. Now, open this gate!"

"This is your only warning, Captain," Kaelan said, his tone dropping, becoming dangerously soft. "Turn your column around and leave the grain. The price for ignoring my hospitality will be steep."

He made a subtle gesture with his hand behind his back. Below, in the courtyard, Alaric saw it and nodded to his men.

Vorlick's sneer widened. He was enjoying this. "You have no hospitality to offer, boy. Only surrender. Knights! Forward! Let's pull this badger out of its sett!"

He gestured, and a squad of ten knights on horseback detached from the column, lowering their lances. They began a slow, deliberate march towards the gate, intending to smash through the flimsy wooden barrier.

This was it. The moment of truth.

Kaelan watched, his breath held. The knights, confident and arrogant, urged their horses into a canter. They bypassed the obvious pit traps, their eyes fixed on the gate.

They never saw the second, shallower line of traps, the ones designed not to kill, but to injure and terrify.

The lead knight's magnificent warhorse let out a shrill, agonized scream as its front leg sank into a hidden pit, the sound of snapping bone echoing across the field. The knight was thrown from the saddle, his armor clattering against the hard ground. The horse behind him, unable to stop, trampled the fallen rider before its own legs were shredded by the bed of sharpened caltrops Kaelan had ordered scattered just beyond the pits.

In an instant, the disciplined charge dissolved into a chaotic mess of screaming animals, fallen men, and panicked shouts.

From the stable roof, Alaric's crossbowmen, following Kaelan's precise orders, did not fire a single shot.

The silence from the walls was more terrifying than any volley.

Captain Vorlick stared, his jaw slack with disbelief. He had expected a fight, not this... this clinical dismantling of his best knights before a single arrow had been loosed.

Kaelan's voice cut through the chaos, cold and precise as a surgeon's knife. "The next demonstration, Captain, will not be so gentle. The grain. Now."

Vorlick's face was a mask of pure, impotent rage. He had been outmaneuvered, humiliated by a boy he considered less than nothing. He looked at his writhing men and horses, at the silent, imposing walls of the keep, and at the calm figure on the parapet.

He had a choice: escalate and risk a full-scale assault against a prepared, cunning enemy, or cut his losses.

His eyes, burning with a promise of future vengeance, locked with Kaelan's.