Chapter 237: Defensive Measures (1/2)
”The Brotherhood of the Ancient and Most Salubrious Art of Fishmongery just sent us three white-trimmed herring in a small barrel. Their messenger made sure to announce that it was a gift of recognition. Congratulations, lad.”
Brenden, having just come downstairs after waking up, stared at Fang blearily for a couple seconds. He'd only manged to get a few hours of sleep since coming back from his fight against the giant flesh monster. His sleep had been interrupted by by Mike's follower Selene, who had a jarring message to deliver. At the moment, had neither the patience nor the desire to divine the meaning of the old beastman's words.
Shaking his head, he wandered over to a table and sat down, ordering breakfast in the process. ”Griselda! One of whatever you're serving.”
The matronly innkeeper quickly brought out a plate of fresh baked bread, accompanied by a helping of butter and a mug of ale to wash it down. Placing it all in front of him, the de facto leader of the criminal gang known as the Hunter's Paw gave him a warm smile. ”We're in the process of cooking up those fish he's talking about, but it will be a few minutes before they are ready. In the meantime this should tide you over. Let me know if you're still hungry afterwards.”
Brenden nodded his thanks before cutting himself off a piece of bread and slathering it in butter. As he was chewing, he glanced up at Fang, who was still hanging around as if unsure of how to respond to being ignored. Sighing, he finally replied, ”I don't really have any idea what that means, but thanks? I guess?”
The bear beastman blinked before letting loose with a relieved chuckle. ”Ah, I forgot you aren't from around here. I was worried there for a minute. Well, lad, the Brotherhood is widely regarded as the most pre-eminent force in the Old City. They are an ancient gang, dating back to the Pyrathian Empire, and are known to be some of the richest and most powerful inhabitants of the city's underworld.”
”...Really?”
”I know what you're thinking. How could a bunch of fishmongers rise to such prominence? Well its actually a long and interesting story...”
Brenden was massaging his temples, feeling a headache coming on. ”Can you abbreviate it?”
Fang was momentarily taken aback, but continued with his usual energy. ”Right, well its not important at the moment. The big thing is that, they were the only major gang who hadn't joined up with us yet. Them giving you those fish, especially as a gift of recognition, means they're accepting you as the ruler of Almirn's underworld. Its their traditional method of swearing fealty. This means that all the members of the council are backing you.”
[Seriously? Why do these gangs have the most ridiculous rules and traditions? If they tried to pull this stuff in Wyrport, they'd be laughed out of the city.]
He groaned slightly. ”So I'm officially in charge of things now? Is that right?”
”Well, not exactly. Technically there still needs to be a council meeting where the leaders of Almirn's biggest gangs recognize you as their ruler. But don't worry! I've already got the meeting set up. In just a few days time we can make this official.”
Brenden took a long swig of ale, buying himself some time to think. [If what that Selene woman said about the undead was true, then we have much bigger problems to worry about.]
It occurred to him that the ruler of the city's underworld would probably be able to mobilize the gangs to help the war effort. With how desperate things were seeming to become, every bit of support was going to be needed.
”Is there any way to move the meeting up?” He asked, a plan forming in his mind. ”The sooner the better.”
Fang frowned, but nodded. ”I'll see what I can do, but are you sure lad? We'll need time to make a proper ceremony of the event. Anything we could rig up on short notice is going to seem pretty undignified.”
”I'm sure.” He replied solemnly, before breaking out in a smile as the tantalizing smell of cooked fish started wafting in from the kitchen. Apparently, lunch was nearly ready.
----------------------------------------------------
Mike flexed his will once more, and the last of the solid stone walls rose to join their fellows. This completed the hilltop defenses, or at least the outer portion of them. He was planning on reinforcing them a bit, and maybe even putting up some towers and a keep. Assuming he had the time, he was also thinking of a number of ways he could lay some traps for the enemy, and was hoping to do some experimentation before they arrived. For now though, he decided it was time to take a break.
”Good work.” Morris commented from his folding chair, eyes still on the pile of documents he was slowly sorting through. He absently gestured to the other side of his camp desk, where a similar chair sat empty. ”Have a seat.”
”Thanks.”
Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, only the rustle of Morris's papers breaking the silence. Finally, Mike spoke. ”So, what do you think of our chances?”
His friend glanced up at him and frowned. ”Honestly, I'm not sure. The sheer difference in numbers is going to be hard to overcome.”
He'd said as much during the battle planning that had concluded a little while ago. The Lacotians would outnumber them by a factor of ten, and therefore wouldn't really need to do anything unorthodox. They could simply force the coalition army into a battle of attrition.
”The walls should help, but we don't know what to really expect from the enemy.”
Mike stared off towards the northern horizon at the brooding grey presences of the Ash Mountains. ”You mentioned a weakness. Something we can exploit.”
Morris sighed, ”I don't know if its exactly a weakness, but it might be our best bet of winning this fight. It goes without saying that an undead army has a number of advantages, right?”
[Here comes lecture mode.] Mike thought while nodding. He was having the oddest sensation of nostalgia.
”They don't have to worry about food, shelter, or rest. They don't know fear or pain. Worst of all, every battle gives them a chance to replenish their numbers.”