We dismounted, handing our reins over to the stablehands approaching from the courtyard. Jason led us into the building, and its interior proved just as unnerving as its oppressive façade. After climbing winding stone stairs and marching through dimly lit hallways, we reached our destination: a massive wooden door flanked by lines of heavily armed soldiers.
The guards allowed us entry without question. We stepped into a cavernous hall, lit brightly from end to end by blazing wall sconces. At the far end sat an elevated, semi-circular dais holding seven distinct thrones. Occupying them was a flock of aged, withered men; only two among them appeared to be on the younger side of fifty.
Positioned below the dais was a massive oak table, surrounded by the various sellsword captains hired by Qohor and a smattering of city dignitaries. The display immediately reminded me of the royal feasts in King's Landing, where my grandsire and the royal family sat the high table, gazing down upon the lesser lords.
One of the younger men, seated to the left of the central throne, stood as we found our places near the back. He wore fine adornments of gold and silver, his silken robes a deep blue trimmed with purple lapels. His round face was mostly unblemished, though it bore the undeniable creeping of age just as his greying hair did. Yet, his blue eyes were completely devoid of mirth—just as hollow and haunted as the peasants I had seen huddled in the streets.
"Welcome, dear friends, to Qohor. The timing of your arrival is most opportune, even if the circumstances are less than ideal," he began, his smooth tongue flapping with practiced ease. "I am Taroh Eranis, Second Seat of the City Council. With permission from High Priest Trahar, we may begin tonight's proceedings."
He looked back at the gaunt man occupying the central throne. The man wore ceremonial priestly garbs of ash grey and pitch black. A heavy hood obscured his face, but his authority was absolute. He offered Taroh a slow, deliberate nod.
"Very well. We are gathered today to discuss defensive preparations. We have received credible intelligence that the Imperial Roman Legions plan to launch a full-frontal assault on the morrow."
At this grim conclusion, the sellswords seated around the table erupted into a chorus of muttered curses and tense whispers.
"Silence!" bellowed a voice from the left head of the table. It belonged to an aged man in hardened leather armor—likely the commander of the city's standing forces.
"Thank you, General Mor," Taroh continued. "As I was saying, we must prepare. Considering the devastating damage we suffered during their first assault a moon ago, we face a catastrophic loss of life should our walls fail this time. Thus, I have gathered you to coordinate our defenses. General, you have the floor."
"I thank you, Lord Eranis." General Mor stood. Two servants dragged a large wooden board behind him, angling it so both sides of the hall could see. Pinned to the wood was a detailed map of Qohor and its surrounding topography, littered with coloured markers denoting troop placements.
"Presently, our initial force of eighty thousand has been bled down to fifty-seven thousand. With the arrival of the Falling Stars and the Norvoshi vanguard, that number has climbed to roughly sixty-two thousand," the General reported crisply. "Our enemy has been whittled down from seventy thousand to fifty-eight thousand. This grants us a slight numerical superiority, but the Imperial Legions are not to be underestimated. Even with fewer men, their discipline allows them to completely shatter our cavalry charges and rout our infantry formations."
The General tapped a point on the map. "Therefore, we will utilize a false-gap formation on the morrow. We will feign a break in our lines to lure their heavy infantry and cavalry forward, then attempt to sever their command structure with a flanking cavalry charge of our own. To achieve this, we require all five sellsword companies to hold the center and take the absolute brunt of the Imperial vanguard."
"Preposterous!" spat a heavily scarred man seated at the opposite end of the table. "You want us to act as bait! That is the truth of it. While we face the Empire's wrath and get chewed to pieces, you will hold your own forces in reserve and bypass the slaughter, leaving Qohor with minimal losses."
General Mor quirked an eyebrow. "Are you not paid to do exactly that, Commander Braham? Or is the mighty Company of the Rose suddenly terrified of the Romans merely a moon after signing your contract?" he taunted.
"Call it what you will, you conniving bastard," Braham snarled, "but you are asking me to send my men into a meat grinder while offering a paltry sum in compensation."
"If it is the compensation that worries you, dear Commander, then it can always be increased. You need only ask," came the voice of High Priest Trahar, as soft and smooth as spun silk.
"Thrice our initial contract," Braham demanded immediately.
"Forgive me, Commander, but that is excessive. We will double your current monthly wage for your troubles on the morrow," Trahar countered calmly.
Braham opened his mouth to argue, but Trahar raised a pale hand. "Of course, if you manage to break their cavalry lines and present me with the head of their commander, we can certainly supply your initial demand."
That caught the sellsword's tongue. He scowled, pondering the odds. Ultimately, greed won out over tactical objections, as it always did with mercenaries. "Agreed. Triple the contract if we slay the cavalry commander, and the standard payment upfront for tomorrow's vanguard."
The High Priest's black lips curled into a smile beneath his hood. He turned his attention to the rest of the room. "This bounty is extended to all of you. Break the Imperial cavalry and slay its commander, and Qohor will triple your original contracts."
The promise of that much gold instantly drowned out any lingering dissent from the room.
"Excellent. General, if that concludes the broader strategy, the Council shall retire. You may feast and finalize the tactical details for the morrow," Trahar dismissed softly.
All seven council members stood in unison and filed out of the hall, shadowed by their personal guards. They left us and the General to our grim work. Platters of roasted meat and skins of wine were eventually brought to the table, but it took the better part of five hours to iron out the bloody logistics of tomorrow's battle before we finally retired to the camps for a few fleeting hours of rest.