Daenys rolled her eyes as Tasha and Reman finally left the room, leaving her to her thoughts. Alone, at last, she turned her attention to the plans scattered across the table before her. Her fingers traced over the map, lingering on the crude depiction of the nine Gahkar camps sprawled across the outskirts of the landbridge.
Nine leaders, each with their own ambitions, each squabbling like children while the Pickette loomed above them, unyielding. A fortress as impenetrable as legend claimed, sitting untouched because the Gahkar could barely agree on anything. They were all so caught up in their petty rivalries, too consumed by who would claim credit for its fall.
Daenys sighed, leaning back in her chair. The Gahkar were her people, but they were also fools. That truth sat heavy on her shoulders, an undeniable weight she couldn't shrug off. If they continued as they were, this siege would last for years, and hundreds—no, thousands—would die pointlessly, all for pride and stubbornness.
Her finger tapped against the map where the Pickette's towering shadow was marked. Could it truly be as indomitable as the stories claimed? The fortress had stood for centuries, enduring sieges and wars. It was said to have survived dragon fire, its stones unyielding even under the wrath of those ancient beasts. But no fortress was invincible. Every fortress had a weakness.
She thought of the karnen, those massive beasts from the trees. How had her people dealt with them? By pelting them with a thousand arrows until they bled enough to collapse. The karnen weren't defeated in one strike but by wearing them down, by forcing their great bulk to stumble, bit by bit.
Perhaps the Pickette could be treated the same way.
She leaned forward again, her mind beginning to work. The key wasn't brute strength or numbers. It was strategy. She needed to force the defenders out of the fortress, to expose their vulnerability.
Water.
The thought struck her like a sudden gust of wind. Every siege came down to three essentials: water, food, and morale. Without water, no army could endure for long. Her gaze moved to the faint lines drawn on the map, the ones marked as pipes snaking from the base of the Pickette into the surrounding terrain.
If those pipes were vital to the fortress's water supply, then severing them could be the answer. But it wasn't enough. Cutting the water would only make the defenders desperate, not defeated. She needed to create chaos, to exploit that desperation and drive them into the open.
The other Gahkar would have to see her in the middle of it all. They'd have to watch as she took the Pickette, not as some pawn but as its conqueror. They would have no choice but to acknowledge her.
Her finger circled the Pickette again. This wasn't just about tactics—it was about power. She needed to prove herself, not just to her warband but to the Gahkar as well. She would show them all that Daenys Godren wasn't just a Heartrender. She was the rightful Gahkar of Estil.
Daenys jotted down names in the margins of the map: The Black Baron, Darma the Ruthless, Radakin the Gifted. These were the defenders of the Pickette, the best Astad had to offer. If the stories about them were true, she would need more than just clever tactics to overcome them.
"Cut the water first," she murmured to herself, circling the pipes on the map. "But that won't be enough. They'll send sorties to fix the pipes. I need to anticipate that."
She tapped the table, her mind racing. Sporadic attacks would force the defenders to split their forces, but it wouldn't break them entirely. If she could seize the town on the landbridge—a staging point the Astadians used to control movement toward the Pickette—then she could cut them off entirely.
Her thoughts drifted back to the other Gahkar. They would despise her for this. She could already hear the whispers: The upstart Heartrender, too bold for her own good.
Kanna the Impaler would call her reckless. Rev would sneer, saying she was too young, too green to hold such ambition. They'd rally against her, perhaps even seek to crush her warband outright.
"Let them try," she muttered under her breath, her grip tightening on the edge of the table. "They'll all see who I really am soon enough."
The other Gahkar were a secondary concern for now. The first step was clear. She needed to move quickly to secure the water supply and capture the bridge town before the other Gahkar could react.
Her gaze fell to the names she had written. The Black Baron, Darma, Radakin. They wouldn't sit idly by. The Baron would likely send Darma to crush any assault on the water supply while keeping Radakin at the bridge town to hold it at all costs.
She scribbled more notes beside the names: Darma—aggressive, relentless. Radakin—calculating, defensive. If she wanted this plan to work, she needed to strike both simultaneously.
"Tasha," Daenys said to herself, writing her name next to Darma's. "She'll lead the attack on the pipes."
For the town, she tapped the map where the bridge narrowed to a bottleneck. "Reman will lead the assault there."
Her hand hovered over the center of the map—the Pickette itself. It was still a problem she hadn't solved. If the defenders could hold out for even a few days, the Lunar Storms would drive her forces back, giving them time to regroup.
Her eyes drifted to the notes on the Pickette's walls: Machines unknown.
"Sound," she muttered, remembering the odd resonance the walls made when struck. "If the walls vibrate, maybe the Astadians inside can hear it too."
The thought lingered as she leaned back, exhaustion tugging at her once more. There were still too many unanswered questions, too many risks. But there was no time to hesitate. She would need to act soon.