On the highest tower overlooking the fortified city of Piscow stood Blight, facing the horizon with an air of solemnity that might've suggested he was mourning in solitude atop the mighty structure. This soon proved to be false when a peeved general, his winter coat displaying a rich variety of stars and stripes, emerged from the shadows behind him and asked, "Just how long do you plan on standing there, sir?"
The last word was spat out somewhat hesitantly as if the general hadn't accepted him as a superior yet.
"Not much longer, General Torres. I can assure you I have made up my mind."
"Then why, may I ask, did you order the troops to retreat beyond the Vermillion River?"
"To understand that, you must first know that my little deceptive scheme to defect to Revalty had a second function: to strengthen the Ecclesian citizens as a threat," returned Blight, finally paying attention to the general.
"Yes, sir, I am fully aware of that," said Torres slightly impatiently like a dull student listening to a tedious lecture. "Protecting your reputation and creating an inside threat was fairly obvious, and I'm sure they've already neutralised that problem already."
"Was it?" said Blight amusedly. "Well, I'm sure you'll understand that the rebels' role is crucial; they were to surrender to Grock convincingly, then kill Paulos after I scared him back to Sardis through Levi Arestor, my loyal… creation."
The general chuckled then shook his head skeptically.
"I have overestimated you," he said finally. "Predicting Paulos returning to Sardis because of the murder is reasonable but luck must've played a big part in the plot to assassinate him; it was luck that allowed him to return to Ecclesia from his wall of safety."
"Hardly. Elias Basil, as you know, is one of our closest allies and my insider within Sardis. I had him kill Paulos' unsuspecting head clerk stationed in Ecclesia by a cab accident. Incidentally, that cab was heading to a crime scene also set by him while carrying the police so as to avoid suspicion; when everything was settled, it was made clear to Mr Paulos through Basil himself, who, by the way, has quite the influence in Sardis, that his staff would need replacing to avoid chaos caused by the lack of a crucial record-keeping manager which was further strengthened by displacing a few important documents to ensure confusion. After being lured back to Ecclesia, he became an easy target for Miss Hoffman, whose little scheme I have a fair grasp on. Even if Hoffman were to be suspected, I left behind a few men from my old criminal ring to take the blame and besides, only Enforcers and Sardicean officials are allowed to be in close proximity with Paulos, so their eyes won't be fixed on the distrusted rebels who I presume are suspected to have cut ties with me after that, ah… betrayal. This is all to ensure they remain within Grock's circle of course. Would you consider that to be luck, General?"
The dumbfounded man could do nothing but mutter, "No I suppose not."
Quickly excusing himself under the excuse of supervising the troops, Torres lifted his head and gave a gesture of grudging respect before stepping to the descending stairs; however, he hadn't even made it past the first three until Blight also made for the exit and announced that he'd be going along as well. Although Torres would've very much liked to have said 'no', he was unfortunately the inferior one here but still made it clear that this would not be the end of his displeasure by his rather unpleasant expression.
From every corner of the city, soldiers came flooding out of the massive geared gate guarding the fortified city imposingly. If viewed from a short distance, the skyline of Piscow would seem surreal, perhaps bizarrely so; many pipe-like chimneys reached for the snowy sky, adorned on top of several apartments, which were built with efficiency in mind, rather than appearances. These oddly shaped residences, made to look like a stack of boxes, combined with the chimneys and larger-than-life cogs, which helped to open and close the bulky walls, gave the city a rather silly look, almost like a group of toys stashed against each other.
As General Torres and Blight flew past the streets in an automobile, Blight became the first to break the silence.
"The snow has expelled most of the vegetation in the land," he pointed out softly, gesturing to the lack of greenery outside. "Scorching the earth behind us certainly did buy us a considerable amount of time."
His stony-faced companion merely shrugged and remained silent, giving Blight the opportunity to ramble on about ancient warfare tactics. For the first few minutes, this topic presented itself to be of some interest but right after the ten minute mark, Torres began to grow restless.
"You still haven't told me why we're moving out, Blight," he said at last, putting on a straight face.
"It's fairly obvious if you'd think about it, my dear sir. Once his scouts report that we're leaving the city, Grock will grow suspicious and avoid a direct fight for it. If he does take the city, I've set up some preparations so there won't be any worry about that. Look at it from Grock's perspective: there's a powerful city that requires to be taken with an equally powerful force in combat; you have a resource line set up to transport provisions easily to fuel the massive army, but the distance from the last station and the city is far apart, so what would you do?"
"Take down a closer, weaker village, of course."
"Exactly what every competent strategist would do. Where do you think we should defend?"
"The village? But the village is small and cannot support an army strong enough to counter Ecclesia's."
"Which is why making any attempt at defending our ground here would be futile. If we retreat from Piscow however, Grock will no doubt hesitate and still go around to take the village as a precaution against traps, buying us roughly one or two days' worth of time."
"You still haven't told me what you left behind," said Torres, changing tact with incredible speed. At this, Blight only smiled mysteriously and replied, "Wait and see, General."
But far from being content, Blight's mind continued racing faster than it ever had, until they reached the vanguard of their retreating army.
By killing off Annabelle Paulos with Levi Arestor first while disguising the crime to be somebody else's, everyone's attention will be drawn away from this fact during Paulos' assassination. Arestor's own scheme, while predictable, was far more effective than I'd thought. Sigerson should've solved the case by now and connected the murders back to me; after all, the clue I left behind for him in Bork's laboratory should lead him to the orphanage and consequently to the connection between me and Arestor. Assuming he survived the onslaught of traps Bork devised against me before his kidnapping and found the two Paulos' deaths with me, he too will come to the conclusion that the rebels surrendered under Grock for the sole reason of turning Sardis against them. Grock, on the other hand, will not kill the rebels; he cannot be certain of Miss Hoffman's legitimacy as leader of the rebels nor would he give up the opportunity to gain guerilla fighters to reach unapproachable territory. Moreover, he can feed false information to them in case they're working under me, which from his point of view, would seem exceptionally unlikely because of the immense damage my men's betrayal did to them. They'll never see through this veil as long as I hide it…
By now, their vehicle had reached the vanguard, a small array of disciplined soldiers and horses pulling along bulky amounts of provisions, became visible among the blurry snowfall. Up ahead about a cannon shot away was the mighty Vermillion River, aptly named for its reddish gritty soil which made up its banks. The river, a good mile wide and endlessly long, scattered lush reeds and other scented grasses along the water's edge—a clear sign of warmer weather.
"We will cross the river and set up camp there," announced Blight happily, rubbing his hands together. "As you may have noticed as well, the temperature has risen a bit higher; this'll be important for later."
Of course, instead of being assured, General Torres was understandably confused, perhaps even irritated, but he kept his mouth shut nonetheless. Presently, a scout from the back of the travelling line of soldiers rode up to them on a coal black horse, covered head to toe with bronze scuttles like an armadillo, and reported to Blight through the window of his vehicle, "S–Sir! A large group of strange machines are attacking the village next to Piscow as you predicted!"
Blight grinned, satisfied that nothing had escaped his grasp yet. Torres, on the other hand, fumed and yanked a telescope out of his seated soldier's hands.
"Bring us to the top of that knoll," ordered the general, jabbing a finger at a moderately steep rocky hill. After eventually reaching the top with many bumps and jolts, Torres threw open the door, jumped out of the vehicle with great vehemence, then gazed southwards towards the village in question through the polished telescope. It didn't take long before his face turned into an ugly blanched clay colour as he stuttered, "W–What are those things?"
"Those", answered Blight with an air of a magician revealing his tricks, "are Grock's trump cards. I believe he's been hiding them all this time in order to give us a little surprise.
"T–This is unacceptable!" spluttered the general, now growing redder and redder with each word spoken. "If you knew this would happen, why didn't you give us the slightest bit of warning?"
"Calm yourself, General, and allow me to elaborate. The engineer behind these tanks, Mr Bork, was a good friend of mine, or at least, you could say he was an acquaintance. Through him, I was able to slip in the blueprint for these tanks into his mind when he was recruited by the Enforcers, knowing Grock's tendencies to always plan contingencies to fall on. Having cut off his ties with Sardis and reducing his offensive potency, I knew years ago he'd use these war machines to shield his soldiers thus reducing his ammunition needs and effectively countering my move against him. I have made preparations of my own, so don't you worry."
Incensed, the scarlet-faced general stormed back into the vehicle, swinging his telescope as he did so as if to threaten Blight with a mighty smack from it. Not only did he appear to be unfazed, but Blight also cleared his throat daringly, looking like he wanted to say something else, when the same scout returned and thankfully defused the situation needlessly.
"The troops and boats are all ready sirs—we're ready to begin crossing the river."
Blight inclined his head to acknowledge this message then said, "Let us return to our soldiers, shall we?"
"Fine," was the begrudging answer.
—
During the entire time, Torres did not speak nor make eye contact with Blight and it wasn't until they were safely transported to the other side of the Vermillion River did he open his mouth again.
"Are you for us or against us, Blight?" he asked suspiciously, feeling very much like a fool. Blight, however, gave this sudden question some thought before replying, "Even though I did indeed bring about Grock's secret weapons, do you think I wouldn't leave behind a weakness in them? Rest assured, General; there will be a time for grand revelations, but now is not that time. Let us focus on the present, for it is what we do now that determines the future."
Rebuffed entirely by this answer, Torres had no choice but to remain in his own thoughts, unable to move his superior to give a reasonable explanation. Turning instead to the present event, he watched as rows and rows of scrappy boats made their way across the jade surface of the River, unloading dozens of weary soldiers with every landing. No time was wasted in setting up tents on the safe side and when all the necessary preparations were laid out, Blight saw to it that every soldier received a well-earned meal; his plan was set in motion and all he could do now was await the enemy's arrival to close the net.
After conquering Piscow, the only route he'd likely take would be the same one we took to travel here due to the thick snow covering all other roads. An attack via the river is equally unlikely since our scouts around the water's edge have seen no movement so far and naval attacks generally require knowledge of their landing sites. Even if they attempt to storm the ramparts along the river as a surprise attack, there will be the risk of falling to the heavy cannons and mines laid out, not to mention the lack of discretion… Grock won't take the risk, especially with a weak navy. They will certainly meet us on the other side of the River…
—
While the tents of the Revaltian army were fluttering in the wind, the army of Ecclesia reorganising themselves, and the unfortunate people caught in between the war scampering around for safety, a deathly pale hand gripping a black, almost transparent, fan blew out the row of melting candles in front of it, leaving nothing but a few wisps of white. Everything else disappeared into the expanding darkness.
This fight was not theirs… yet.