(99) Fake It Till You Make It

Space repaired itself, the purple vortex vanishing as the edges of the gate snapped shut. Hannibal glanced around the room and, gathering what was happening, took his place at the table, an immense structure of carved metal that occupied the center of the room.

This office, high up on one of the tallest floors of the Conductor building, was a hemisphere with an arc of tall windows overlooking the sunken city. The view, which would have been dark only days ago, was now lit with small glows, as if a thousand stars had fallen to the ground.

Nephthys stared out the windows, admiring the working street lamps below. The soft blue glow from the now-reactivated mana shield above and the shine of the street lights below made a strange approximation of what twilight might look like back home. It was beautiful, though not to her personal tastes. Maybe vampires would really like it?

“Well, shall we begin?” Bernard said, seated on the side closest to the door.

Around the oval conference table were Bernard, Lamorak, Gregsa, and Grantwell on one side, Ramose, Hannibal, Moirenea, and an empty seat for Nephthys on the other. They were gathered in a soft white light cast from a panel in the ceiling. Nephthys was unsure of the material, but she thought it looked like crystal.

The soft glow was far more pleasant than the sharp fluorescents and LEDs she was used to.

“Indeed. An army gathers, preparing to march on Promise City even as we speak,” Moirenea said, the mood growing serious immediately.

“Sorry, why exactly am I here? War is not an adventurer’s trade,” Grantwell said, his arms crossed before him.

“No, but it was yours for more than a century, was it not?” Nephthys asked without turning.

“Was, yes. I am no longer in that business,” Grantwell replied firmly.

“I was hoping to have your input in this discussion, nothing more. You would be interested in participating as a guild leader, surely, if for no other reason than ensuring none of your adventurers is caught in the chaos,” Nephthys reasoned.

“Sure, fine,” he responded with a heavy sigh.

“What of the guild master for Promise City? Why are they not present?” Hannibal asked, his voice nearly rattling the windows.

“He passed recently from ‘natural causes’. He was known as quite the lecher who abused his position, so some have speculated on the nature of his death, though none is sure what happened, only that he died in his sleep, with no external wounds,” Grantwell explained, leaving the implication hanging.

“And his successor?” Hannibal probed.

“The title of master is not something handed down like nobility. Guild masters may recommend their successors to the presiding council in Sardvend, but who is selected as the new master is solely the presiding council's decision. As you can imagine, due to the distance and the nature of the task, it is not a quick thing,” Grantwell said, nodding to himself, as if reliving a memory.

“Regardless, only Grantwell will be joining us,” Nephthys said.

“Right, well, what do we know of the army?” Bernard asked, picking up on the dismissal of the subject.

“My agents are being careful about infiltrating the fort, but from what we have gathered, around five hundred of what we are calling ‘elevated’ combatants, five hundred standard soldiers, though their strengths vary wildly, and around a thousand of what appear to be civilians outfitted for war,” Moirenea counted on her fingers.

A silence passed across the table, each participant digesting the information.

“That seems…low,” Ramose mused.

“Low? These ‘elevated’ are almost certainly knights. They will be, each and every one, above level 100, and many will be approaching or even above 200, and there are five hundred of them,” Bernard said, shaking his head.

“Before we consider the enemy’s strengths, we should evaluate our own forces,” Hannibal interjected.

“We have none. Zero. We are not from Promise City, and we have not established ourselves within it. Even if we had, who would remain to fight a war after the rebellion? 

“Many, maybe even most, of the guards were eliminated by rebels or the citizens themselves,” Lamorak explained, standing, becoming more exasperated as he spoke.

“So, unless we were going to institute a draft—”

“No,” Nephthys said firmly.

“Then I simply hope you, Nemesis, have some suggestions,” Lamorak finished, sitting down with a shake of his head.

“Defenders need not match their attackers’ numbers,” Nephthys said, still staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“True, but we need to at least be in a similar range. We can’t fight a thousand with a hundred, and we have more than a thousand to fight and less than a hundred to fight with,” Gregsa reasoned.

“Hannibal,” Nephthys ordered.

He stood and, approaching the window, turned to face the room. With a wave of his hand, two pillars of blue flames rose from the floor, splitting and spreading to become four, and then eight, and finally a dozen. 

From the columns of fire emerged demons of all shapes. Some were tall, with long horns and sharp teeth. Others were short and round, their stubby legs seemingly holding their own weight in defiance of gravity.

“Shift,” Hannibal commanded.

As one, the demons were once again engulfed in flames, but only for a brief moment. When the infernos vanished, a dozen human soldiers stood in gleaming steel armor, in parade rest as if awaiting orders from a superior officer.

“Hannibal will handle your numbers for this fight,” Nephthys declared.

The four were speechless, staring at the demons-turned-soldiers in disbelief. After several long seconds, Gregsa spoke up.

“So…you’re going to do the fighting, then?”

Nephthys spun, turning her gaze on the room for the first time.

“Nemesis will not fight a nation’s wars for it. We are…an evening force. We will level the playing field, but it is you, Radaar, who must fight.

“Nemesis is your ally, yes, but it is not us that those soldiers must see. It is not us that they must speak about in hushed whispers of both admiration and fear when they return home. It is you. It is Radaar.

“The proud, independent nation of Radaar must win this conflict against Sardvend in a way that is undeniable to the rest of the world. Your alliance with Nemesis must amplify your projected strength, not be its source.”

Nephthys approached the table purposefully, Vestiment of Fortitude clanking against the tiled floor.

“Rebuilding Radaar’s forces will take time. You will not be able to recruit a standing army overnight, let alone inspire loyalty and discipline in one. Nemesis will provide the means to project the force you lack, but it is you who must stand at its front,” she declared, pointing at Bernard.

He held her stare, the two reading each other through the contact.

“I am but one man,” he said softly.

“So is he who leads your enemy. Moirenea?” Nephthys answered, glancing at the arachnoid, whose main two arms were folded on the table before her.

“They are led by a tall man of broad shoulders and gray hair. He carries himself with confidence and projects authority, while his armor glitters with jewels and gold like a wall ornament,” she explained.

“That will be the archduke, Ragnvald. He was born of the former king’s second wife, a woman from Grymiador in the north. He had some fire in him in his youth, a fire to match any of the northmen. He was always eager to step out from his brother’s shadow, but word is that age has softened him, his fire snuffed by a mountain of gold,” Grantwell explained, his brows furrowed.

“All you need do is convince him to surrender,” Nephthys said, waving her hand dismissively.

“You say that as though it will be easy,” Bernard countered.

“The archduke enjoys his reputation as a conqueror. He relies on it. It is what feeds his life of respect and luxury. Returning in failure would be quite a stain on his record. He will not surrender easily, maybe not even willingly, for in his mind, it would be equivalent to surrendering his livelihood,” Lamorak said.

“If we’re at the point where we’re right in front of him trying to convince him to surrender, we could just kill him,” Gregsa reasoned.

“That would be unwise,” Ramose said, continuing when attention turned toward him. “The goal here is to establish Radaar as an independent nation, not to spark some sort of blood feud. Correct me if I have misjudged, but the current King of Sardvend would surely be compelled to escalate if his brother was killed during a revolution, yes?”

“He might be compelled to escalate regardless of his brother’s life, should the army fail,” Grantwell suggested.

“Might is not the same as will. The odds are better if we spare him,” Ramose replied.

“Great, so our only option is to convince a man practically living off his own vanity to quit the field in disgrace,” Gregsa said, obviously frustrated.

“You must project power, overwhelming power, that leaves even a fool no choice but to retreat,” Hannibal declared.

The group stared at him, and Bernard’s stare was particularly deep.

“And, considering I am leading this charge, you mean that I must somehow project that power. Yet I am, again, only one man,” he said.

“I will loan you that power for this battle,” Nephthys said, drawing all eyes to her. “I told him I would summon him again soon, after all.”

The lines on Bernard’s face deepened along with his contemplation, but before he could ask any questions, Nephthys continued.

“We have two advantages here. First, Sardvend does not know about either Bernard’s or Nemesis’ involvement. Second, they have gravely underestimated Radaar. 

“They think they are mobilizing to easily crush a few peasant uprisings and reclaim their territories. Their force is meant to send a message to uppity civilians, not fight a war against a rival nation. So, while they outnumber you, they do not have nearly the requisite force to challenge our alliance.

“This is not a war to destroy the Kingdom of Sardvend. It is a skirmish to make them respect you, to make them respect Radaar. You must make them recognize that they will not be able to reclaim this territory easily, make them realize that it is not worth the potential cost.

“This is all just a deterrent,” Nephthys explained.

She stared around the table, observing a mix of expressions. Gregsa, in particular, did not seem convinced. That was fine. As long as they trusted her enough to commit, that was all she could ask. 

“Additionally, Nemesis has a stipulation for this battle. We must limit casualties as much as possible, particularly among the levies. We will not be party to slaughtering civilians who do not even wish to be here,” she said, her tone firm.

“How the fuck are we meant to project power without casualties?” Gregsa asked, his arms crossed and tone sour.

“You would not project power by slaughtering low-level civilians, whether or not they are holding weapons. You must focus on the strong, the knights. Nobles will pay attention if their kin begin to die,” Hannibal offered darkly.

Gregsa opened his mouth once again to protest, but Lamorak interrupted.

“Pardon me, but how are we even meant to defend a city that we do not yet control? We plot beneath it, true, but above, various factions and forces are, even now, vying to claim it,” he said.

“A fair point. Is she ready?” Nephthys asked, glancing at Moirenea.

“Yes, though she is still green. I would not yet deploy her on her own, but with our support, she can handle it,” she confirmed with a nod.

“Very well. We should get started, then. These are two separate threads that must be connected quickly,” Nephthys said, nodding back.

Another hole in space appeared, and from the swirling purple light stepped Eleanore.