Dawn lingered beyond the ends of the world. Bartiin watched anxiously as men, warriors from the high mountains, climbed the sheer outer walls of the city under the cover of darkness. They had ascended overhead and Bartiin quickly lost sight of the dozen warriors prized and hand-selected for the task of taking the Southern Gate. Yoharum stood beside him, his burned and scarred face eager for the violence that this day would see. It sent a shiver down Bartiin’s spine. But it was a means to an end. Today would be the day after months and years; today he would go home for good.

The climbers scaled the walls with an expertise that was dizzying. Bartiin couldn’t imagine being in their position, holding on to the slippery stones with only emptiness below. Yoharum did all but cheer for them as they braved the ascent. He boasted that even if one slipped, no sound would escape their lips, such was their devotion. Bartiin wasn’t sure he believed that. Nor did a chance come to test that claim.

They proved their prowess. The first woman crested the wall. Her silhouette was black on indigo, formless to all but those who knew where to look. More followed the first, their skills undeniable. Now all Bartiin could do was wait and pray. The soldiers selected were strong climbers, but inlanders through and through. No Casoyan would mistake them as local soldiers. Nor did they speak Tralang or the common Casoyan tongue. Viiran’s entire plan hinged on their reaching the gatehouse without being detected and dispatching the guard without raising alarm. One small misfortune, and it could all be over before it started. They wouldn’t get a second chance. Bartiin chewed on his cheek, fearing this opportunity would slip through his fingers.

“Time. Now go” Yoharum mumbled softly, his tone unable to hide his zeal. Bartiin and the three soldiers with him followed toward the South Gate. They wore the heavy armour they had looted from the soldiers sent to kill them just three days hence. Yoharum led them through the muddy alleys of Mudtown towards the gatehouse. There were no roads or streets here. Only paths trodden into the mud and the stench of char and filth. There wasn’t much left of Mudtown after the last set of fires, but what remained was smouldering with resentment and anger. Viiran’s rebellion drew strength from it.

They came upon the gate and waited in the shadows, just out of site. Bartiin held his breath. The south gate was the smallest of the five. It was the only one with no need for a garrison barracks, being so close to the fortress. Like the walls, the structure was made of large fitted black stones. It was thirty spans wide and ten deep with three portals, each one gated. The central portal was the largest, but unbreachable once closed. The symmetrical side portals were kill-chambers. Both had hard corners and narrow choke-points designed for withstanding large assaults. They wouldn’t need face them today.

Bartiin watched eagerly. All was quiet. He glanced up past the gate. Far beyond, the fires atop the Casoyan Fortress loomed like a beacon in the night. Its glow stood in contrast to their dark intentions. After long painful minutes, the signal came. A figure appeared from one of the two smaller gates and waved them in. This is it, Bartiin thought. Go time.

Forty figures in pilfered guild uniforms scurried across the darkness towards the gate. Bartiin followed at the rear with the rest of Yoharum’s assault team and forty more undisguised warriors. Now that they were inside, the next phase of the assault would involve taking the Lake Gate.

“Never give yourself only one path for escape” Viiran cautioned. The eight bodies pulled in tight, desperate for Viiran’s guidance. They were rewarded with his prise. “Now go my brothers and sisters. Once both gates were secured, the full attack can commence. Bring us glory this day! Glory and freedom!”

The forty disguised soldiers were to replace the garrisons at the gates and keep up appearances.  The remaining soldiers, Bartiin among them, streamed into the city. The strike teams moved together at first, but quickly split along diverging streets. Some were headed to the auction house. Others for the mountain gate and the palace. They aimed to be in place, ready to strike as the gates opened at dawn. Then the mob would stream into the city and sew chaos.

It was a terrible plan. Bartiin could think of a hundred vulnerabilities. All of their hopes hinged on a small number of critical successes. Taking the wall was just the first. The lake gate was next. Perils were as abundant as the notches in their old weapons. If Viiran’s plan was written in feelings, desperation would have been its ink. Yet the plan moved forward with each step taken. And they would persevere until no more steps could be taken.

Yoharum led them on through the dark streets into The Spires. He was one of the few that knew the city well. For many, this was the first time inside the walls. They moved in nervous silence. The calm before the chaos. Bartiin had been here, in this unique silence, twice before. It was the moment to reflect and plead for life. It was a tradition beyond cultures. Each warrior around him would be doing the same, trusting in those things in life that offered strength and resolve. For Bartiin, they were his home and family

How long since I dozed by the hearth with my daughter on my chest? When was the last time I spent more than fleeting moments with my wife and children. I left them as cooing infants and now they look on me with the curious eyes of strangers instead of admiration for a father. Life can be cruel. To spend years in dedication only to be denied the prize once the work is done. Aramuk Krimas is finally dead. And Instead of the peace I’ve longed for, I march with men I don’t know to a battle I want not for a cause I don’t believe in. Bartin let out a resigned sigh. He finished the prayer, deliver me the strength required to go home.

Dawn crowned the great volcanic peak to the east, chasing the curtain of night towards the horizon. As light took hold, Bartiin stowed his hopes until tomorrow. Worn on his heart, they wouldn’t survive this day of reckoning. Once again, to earn the peace and freedom he craved, he needed first endure the fight ahead. “Anticipation is the enemy of satisfaction,”he whispered. It was the mantra from a man he once revered, then had murdered. They were Prince Aramuk’s words. Saviour and traitor. Architect and ruin.

They stopped in a wide alley junction. Yoharum addressed his men. Bartiin understood none of the words yet all of their meaning. They brandished their weapons; ghata, axes, and short swords. One carried a short bow and quiver. No spears or shields. They carried only weapons that could be hidden. Bartiin stared around the group of strangers. Most wore workers clothes, plain and unremarkable. Had Viiran not forbidden it, Bartiin expected all would have crossed the city in full war-paint and regalia. The shells and beads braided into their hair served as their only warrior’s symbols.

High above them, the finials and high slanted rooftops brought Bartiin back to the day of his escape from the embassy. That moment stood lodged in his memories as a turning point. The what if moment. How things might have gone had he tried to flee by ship rather than into the countryside. Where he might be now instead of here. Bartiin felt ashamed. Ashamed for using these men for his own means. But not enough so to stop it.

Then recognition hit him and Bartiin’s gut twisted. There was a reason he thought of that day. He knew this place. He looked down and noticed Yoharum’s warriors were staring. Yoharum too held his gaze. A weight settled on Bartiin’s chest as he was painfully reminded that it was he who had betrayed the burnt warrior across from him. He and the ambassador. The ambassador whose house they now crowded outside.

Fear and suspicion coiled around Bartiin like a python. Yoharum ascended the steps and knocked soundly on the backdoor. This is bad. Bartiin considered fleeing. Better to run than face Yoharum’s rage. He held no doubts that the brute would kill him when the truth came out. His betrayal had been the catalyst for Yoharum’s downfall; the fuel for his fiery vengeance.

Time ran out. The lock on the door gave. Men rushed inside. Yoharum would either learn the truth or he wouldn’t. There was little Bartiin could do to stop them. He was dragged inside the embassy with the others. There was a commotion as warriors swept through the house. Bartiin stood awkwardly, the only one left unaware. Yoharum reappeared and he looked disappointed. Clearly, the ambassador wasn’t home.

Courage returned. “What are we doing here?” Bartiin asked. “I don’t remember this being a part of Viiran’s plan.”

Yoharum eyed him suspiciously. All of his expelled anxieties returned in a flash. There was something in Yoharum’s eyes that hinted danger. An unspoken threat. Anger and frustration all captured in the venomous snarl that curled across Yoharum’s scabbed lips. Ever more layers to the conspiracy. Ever one step behind.

“Where is she?” Yoharum demanded. He came in close to where Bartiin stood. Their eyes locked and Bartiin found he could not look away. Like staring down a wild dog. All eyes one moment and all teeth the next.

“Who?” Bartiin asked calmly.

“Don’t play dumb to me” Yoharum growled. “Where is the… the woman. Where is she!”

“How should I know?” Bartiin asked.

“Because she is the friend you say to me. The one who gets you out of prison.” For the briefest of moments, Bartiin feared that Yoharum would act on his rage-fueled impulses alone. No need for proof. Instead, he stomped his foot in anger.

“Yoharum” a man said, shifting their attentions. They spoke, then Bartiin followed them upstairs.

The thing the warrior wished for Yoharum to see was the blood. There was plenty of it still visible. Whoever had been here to clean up had done a decent job, but the stain across the bed had been left untouched. From there, it was easy enough spotting the small splatters across the room and on the ceiling. Whatever had happened here, it hadn’t been pretty.

Bartiin stood at the door, taking in the horror. If Hina wasn’t dead, then somebody else had died in her bed. Yoharum turned and faced him. He knows, Bartiin guessed. Or at least he suspects it was me. But how? And when? He tried to remain calm. He was desperate to keep the fear and guilt off his face.  Yoharum held his gaze a moment longer and then pushed his way past in a huff. He stomped out of the room and back down the stairs. He barked orders and the men followed. Bartiin cast one last look around the bloody room, and then trailed behind. It was settled; he needed to extradite himself from this foolishness. If he didn’t, he’d meet a fate worse than Hina’s.

The problem with escaping from a group of unfamiliar warriors who don’t speak your language is that they communicate through tugs and eyes and gestures. “Go this way. Follow me. Stay close.” Never was he more than an arms span from any of the warriors. Never would they let him out of their sight.

They ran along a narrow canal. The way was dark and unpleasant. It smelled of moss, decay, filth, and fetid water. The smell was so strong that Bartiin feared an Aginjigaade near by. Nothing sprang from the darkness and the scent disappeared as they stepped out before the bay.

Yoharum stopped and surveyed the endless foray of merchant galleys. Hundreds of ships. Countless docks and wharves. Warehouses perched above the water atop thick timber piers. Muscles and barnacles clung to everything within reach of the sea. Far across the bay, the wide channel that connected the bay of Caso with the wider sea teased of freedom. Bartiin vowed to sail that straight this night.  

But while Bartiin stared seaward, Yoharum and his men stared skyward. Yoharum drew close and spoke directly to him, “At end of the week,” he pronounced, “that tower will fall to the water.” Bartiin followed Yoharum’s gaze up to the fortress. It loomed high and overlooked the city. The lonely tower stood atop a smaller pinnacle connected by a bridge.

“If you take the city, you’ll need to starve them out” Bartiin advised. “It might take months.”

“When” Yoharum corrected, brows furrowed. “When I take this city. I will kill all man and women that hides there.”

Then the fortress blazed to light as the sun cast its first glace over the mountain. Dawn had come. The gates would open shortly and chaos would begin. Yoharum led his men north away from the fortress. They reached the first of guard station. There would be one for each lane, and a wharfinger at each. The plan was the same for each one. Kill the guards. Rob the wharfinger. Move to the next.

Slit throats were all that remained after Yoharum’s warriors set upon the first guard post. They pocketed the coins in a sack. Bartiin inspected their handiwork. The murders were savage. No mercy was spared for these men. Bartiin recognized the dead wharfinger. He was the man Bartiin had paid that first night in Caso. This was where he had docked his ship. The last soldier was spotted at the end of the docks. A hand over his mouth and a knife in his back was all it took. The same befell a poor sailor who left his ship at the wrong moment. They moved to the next dock post. These men died much the same as the last. Yoharum sent men down the docks and they came back soon after. And, so it went.

But as they rushed towards the third guard post, the plan as explained deviated from the plan unfolding. Smoke appeared behind them, black against the new light of day. Bartiin stared in concern. He climbed a post and spotted the flames spreading across several ships moored to the docks behind them. His own ship burned among them.

“Fire!” he exclaimed.

A heavy hand dragged him down and he was suddenly in Yoharum’s grasp. The man towered above him. The eyes that looked down on his were filled with vindictive madness. “This is the way” he said. It was a warning as much as an explanation. “Caso must fear us. We give them fear with chaos. You understand?” Bartiin opened his mouth to protest. No words came. “Once we have won, I promise you a new ship.”

Bartiin nodded in understanding. Not in acceptance. He knew Yoharum’s promise was a lie. Just as his own promises had been. This was a betrayal akin to Bartiin’s own. No, it was an understanding of the new paradigm between them. The threat unspoken. Yoharum was going to have his revenge.

Yoharum’s men severed mooring lines and disabled rudders, then pushed them out to brave the waves. Others they burned, lighting anything that would take a flame. Fire was the weapon used against them and fire was their answer in turn.

And then the bells tolled.

Birds took flight as the chorus sang across the city. Their echoes sounded off the hard cliffs to the south and brought forth the chaos Yoharum desired. The time for secrecy was over. Yoharum’s tribesmen raced towards the next post with their brutal leader at the head of his war pack. Bartiin was encouraged along, an unwilling witness to the death and destruction that was sure to follow.

The warriors destroyed anything they could get their blades into and took everything they could get their hands on. Axes chopped away mooring ropes. Fires were lit wanton. Death was handed out generously. People appeared and watched as fights broke out. Then they fled as the killing followed.

Yoharum reveled in it. He’d found himself a proper military shield and brandished his war axe. Soldiers appeared and Yoharum met them with a vicious smile. Yoharum parried the spear thrust that came his direction and drove his axe into the Casoyan soldier’s shield so hard the man shattered beneath the blow. They stood no chance against the bloodlust of Yoharum’s warriors. The chaos they sought had arrived. The bells and screams became an assault on sanity.

Fires were spreading across more and more ships now. The archer was volleying flaming arrows at the closest ships, aiming for sails. He missed most and plenty didn’t catch, but the ones that did added to the chaos along the coast.

“Burn them all!” Yoharum roared. His thirst for ruin stood equal to his thirsts for blood and revenge.

“No!” Bartiin protested, but his outcry was smothered by the bells and the bedlam. He ran to Yoharum and the giant man turned on him, weapons raised. “This is madness!” Bartiin yelled. “You’ll cripple yourselves if you destroy all these ships! It will take years to rebuild. How will you trade? How will you build alliances?”

“Alliances?” Yoharum rounded on him, his eyes blazing with fury. “We need no alliances. Not with people who help Casoyan dogs take everything from us.” He brought his face in menacingly close. “You among them! Do not forget your place, Bartiin!”

“And what is my place here?” Bartiin demanded, suddenly emboldened.

Yoharum smiled and the burns and scars made the gesture unnerving. “Your time is ended. No more can you use me; use us. You are a liar. You and your far away king and your ambassador. No more. Your place is here, witness. You must see what you have made of us.”

“Destroying everything doesn’t avenge anyone if it hurts you most in the end” Bartiin pleaded. “Killing Casoyans, burning ships… it won’t change anything. It won’t fix the past. Destruction doesn’t build futures.”

“I did think we were the same” Yoharum said, circling him. “I was wrong. You speak like a coward. I will give out the justice this city deserves. I will decide what my revenge looks like. Each ship burned is for a village destroyed. Each life taken is for a family killed. Each death feeds a future for my people! One where we are on top!” Yoharum’s control snapped. Fueled by hatred and bitterness, he tossed another torch on the nearest ship. The pitch-treated wood caught, flames erupting like angry spirits. “Now witness!”

“Please, Yoharum…” Bartiin begged. The hatred in Yoharum’s eyes destroyed what little hope Bartiin had clung on to.

“Watch them burn, Bartiin” Yoharum said jovially. “Witness and tell the world. This is what we do to enemies that wish to use us.”

Both men turned as a man was tossed at Yoharum’s feet. The fear was plain across the Casoyan’s face. Bartiin shared that fear. They both had every right to it. Yoharum exchanged words with the two warriors who had brought him. The wicked smile on Yoharum’s face grew.

“Patzau” was the only word Bartiin recognized. Which one it was, he couldn’t tell.

Bartiin stood beside the Patzau. Both men shared the same defeat. Resignation to the end. Bartiin was stripped on his weapons. The sword he never swung came willingly from his grasp.

“You stay and watch Caso burn” Yoharum goaded. “I’m taking my prize to Viiran.” Yoharum led the Patzau away. The two soldiers that had brought him turned their gazes his direction. I’m fucked, Bartiin thought.

Viiran’s assault team held their breaths in the shadow’s of Patzau Palace. They had encountered more trouble than he had anticipated; twice they had lured away soldiers in their path. Even more often, they had needed wait for windows of opportunity. It had taken twice as long as Viiran had planned but it would all be worth it. His people, once divided, now united in hatred, stood ready to take for themselves the city of gold. Years of planning hinged on the next few minutes. From narrow alcoves and dark alleyways, they waited for his signal.

Taking the palace was pivotal to success. It was the center of the guilds’ powers. The Resources Guild, the Banking Guild, and the Guild of Casoyan Affairs each administered from within. As such, the plan was to wait for at least two Patzau to arrive. Then they would strike towards the palace and cut the heads off the hydra. With the palace under Viiran’s control, they would have hostages and a defensible position. And as the planned riots spread across the city, all would crumble to the chaos and a new authority would rise from the ashes.

Instead, the bells tolled early.

This was a possibility planned for, yet still a disappointment. They would need strike now, instead of when most opportune. The alarm was low and rumbled distinctly. Other towers joined in the chorus. And Viiran, who was once a soldier and could read their encoded meanings, understood where the failure had occurred. The southern gate had been the weakness. The time was right for the change of guard. Most likely, his soldiers there had been discovered as imposters. He had hoped for better, but fate is a force irresistible.

Viiran gave the signal.

His warriors rushed the palace. The guards posted were nervous. They too heard the bells. They knew they sung for the lake gate and were ill prepared for the ambush at their doorstep. The attack was swift and inevitable. Warriors flooded into the palace. The swept through the halls and administration wings. They killed those who needed killing and captured the rest. All were caught unprepared.

Viiran marched like a king through the empty halls. Those still alive cowered as he passed. He paid them no mind. They would be his vassals once this was over. His men once he reigned as King. All that remained was to claim the council chambers. He ascended the grand staircase up to the higher levels with his warriors at his heels. None barred his path. He pushed open the large chamber doors revealing the circular council table in the center. Eight seats sat vacant. He marveled in it.

“Bar the palace doors” Viiran ordered. “We hold the palace as our stronghold. The rioters will sweep through the city soon enough and in the meantime, we find and destroy the remaining Patzau. Dawn has risen on a new era.”

The men with him nodded in assent and left him. Viiran surveyed his surroundings. Warm light filled the chamber through the large arched windows that looked out towards the bay. Ships burned in the bay and plumes of smoke rose ever higher. He couldn’t smell it from here. The room smelled clean in an unnatural herbaceous way. It was a smell that made his nose wrinkle. These lords and their perfumes.

Viiran sat in one of the ornate council chairs across from the large door. “This will be the place,” he surmised, mumbling to himself “where I am either crowned a king or killed as a traitor.”

An ethereal voice spoke as if from nowhere. “You are right about that” it said wolfishly. A man seemed to appear as if from thin air. Viiran leapt out of his seat, drawing his long knife. “Now, now…” he said. “I was hoping to talk a bit before it came to that.” The door closed and was latched with a soft click. He was trapping Viiran inside the room. The man’s voice was icy and calm. He spoke Casoyan, but with the faintest hint of foreign inflections.

“You’re an Aginjigaade” Viiran said cautiously.

“Very astute” Janos said, turning to face him. He took a seat at the council table across from where Viiran stood, knife drawn. “And you must be the one and only Viiran. Please, sit. Let’s have a chat.”

Viiran did not sit. Every hair on body stood erect. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the knife with a laden grip. “Who are you?” Viiran asked. He knew already, but needed time to think. He hadn’t expected anything like this. Now he was alone, vulnerable. They’ve played me.

“I wanted to thank you” Janos said, ignoring the question. “It has been difficult for us, you see, organizing all of this. You played your part wonderfully. You are a delightfully brilliant man and we had to place a lot of trust in you getting here today.”

Viiran’s mind raced. “What do you mean, organizing this?”

“Your being here” Janos answered. “The whole rebellion. It was a necessary evil. But one required for our ambitions. We hoped that you, or someone like you would appear and you did.”

“You knew we would come?” Viiran asked, astounded by the idea.

“Of course!” Janos said. “We counted on it. You see, it takes a grave threat to force change upon a populace. Without it, people tend to be very resistant. A rebellion was the perfect catalyst, especially one led by your people. The conditions were already there, perfect kindle to light and watch grow into flames of passion.”

“I don’t understand” Viiran said. His eyes shifted nervously around the room.

“You will…” Janos said. “Actually, maybe not.”