Spring, 1468 AD – The Fortress of Krons

  Ten kilometers upstream, the River Seros had stopped flowing.

  For twelve hours, the Earth Mage Battalion of the Shersian Army, working under Alaric’s precise command, had raised a massive earthen barricade. They had choked the life out of the river, holding back millions of gallons of water.

  Behind the temporary dam, the water level had risen dangerously high, a shivering black lake of potential energy pressing against the mud walls.

  Downstream at the Fortress of Krons, the effect was subtle but confusing. The massive moat surrounding the city had receded by nearly two meters, leaving a ring of wet mud and slime exposed at the base of the walls.

  "The water is dropping," a Buckland sentry muttered, peering over the battlements into the darkness. "Is it a drought?"

  "Don't be stupid," another guard replied, yawning. "It's spring. Probably a blockage in the mountains. Better for us. Harder for them to cross the mud."

  Alaric stood at the edge of the treeline, facing the imposing front gate of Krons. He checked the pocket watch attached to his belt.

  It was midnight.

  Beside him crouched Grand Captain Bristane. Behind them were one hundred of the most elite infiltrators of the knight order. They wore lightened armor and carried no torches.

  "You realize this is insanity, right?" Bristane whispered, adjusting the grip on his greatsword. "Running across water? Climbing a fifteen-meter wall?"

  "I can do it, Captain," Alaric said, his voice devoid of fear. "Run at enough speed and I can cross before I start to drown. As long as I don't stop, I won't sink."

  "And if you trip?"

  "Then I drown," Alaric said simply. "Get ready."

  He snapped the watch shut.

  Ten kilometers away, the Earth Mages dropped the dam.

  The earthen dam collapsed instantly.

  Millions of tons of water, held back for half a day, roared down the riverbed in a singular, crushing soliton wave. It moved at high speeds, tearing up trees and boulders as it raced toward the city.

  Inside Krons, the ground began to tremble.

  RUMBLE...

  The vibration shook the tea cups on the tables of the officers playing cards. It rattled the spears in the weapon racks.

  Then, the sound hit. A deafening roar, like a mountain collapsing, slammed into the rear of the city.

  The wave crashed into the back walls of the fortress. It didn't breach the stone, but the impact sent a spray of water fifty feet into the air. It washed away the rear guard towers, flooded the lower sluice gates, and smashed the supply docks into splinters.

  "FLOOD!" screams erupted from the rear barracks. "The river! It's a mudslide! The rear wall is cracking!"

  Panic was contagious, swept through the garrison of eighty thousand men. Soldiers who had been sleeping scrambled out of their tents. Officers shouted conflicting orders.

  "Reinforce the rear wall!" "Save the supplies!" "Move the weapons to the back!"

  The illusion was perfect. The entire city turned its back on the front gate, rushing toward the noise and the water, convinced the disaster was happening at the rear.

  "Now," Alaric commanded.

  A squad of twenty High-Mages stepped forward to the edge of the receding front lake. They didn't summon pillars of flame that would light up the night.

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  They chanted for Creo Ignis Thermal Wave.

  Invisible, concentrated heat blasted from their hands, striking the cold, turbulent water of the moat.

  HSSSSSSSS.

  The reaction was instantaneous. The water exploded into steam. A massive, unnatural cloud of thick white fog rolled off the surface of the lake. It billowed up, consuming the muddy banks and rolling over the fortress walls, swallowing the few remaining sentries in a blinding whiteout.

  Visibility dropped to zero.

  "I’m going," Alaric whispered.

  "Confirma: Overload." "Creo Ventus: Gale Boost." "Creo Terra: Light Weight."

  The mana reserve in Alaric’s soul roared to life. He burst from the treeline.

  To Bristane’s eyes, Alaric vanished. A blur of black steel shot across the mud and onto the water.

  Alaric’s boots struck the surface of the moat hard, but his speed was so immense that the water didn't have time to displace. He sprinted across the liquid surface, leaving a wake of white spray behind him.

  He reached the base of the fifteen-meter wall in three seconds.

  He didn't slow down. He shifted his center of gravity, channeled a burst of wind behind him, and ran up the vertical stone face. Five meters. Ten meters.

  Gravity clawed at him, but momentum won.

  Alaric vaulted over the stone battlements, landing in a crouch on the rampart.

  Three Buckland archers were standing there, staring blindly into the fog, confused by the noise from the rear. They heard a heavy metallic thud behind them.

  Before they could turn, Alaric moved.

  He didn't waste mana on gunfire. He used the gauntlets. A punch to the throat, a chop to the neck, a kick to the knee. The guards collapsed silently into the mist.

  Alaric stood up and uncoiled the heavy rope from his shoulder and secured it to a massive stone merlon. He threw the other end down into the fog and gave the rope two sharp tugs.

  Below, Bristane felt the signal.

  "Move!" the Captain ordered. "Use your hooks! Don't look down!"

  The elite knights hooked onto the rope. With the aid of wind magic, they zipped up the wall rapidly, disappearing into the white void.

  One by one, they vaulted over the wall, forming a perimeter around Alaric.

  "Clear," Bristane grunted, landing heavily. "That was the most terrifying thing I have ever done."

  "Save the fear," Alaric said, pointing to the stairs leading down into the city. "The Gatehouse is 300 meters that way. We have maybe five minutes before they realize the flood isn't an attack."

  The strike team moved like ghosts. They descended the stone stairs into the inner courtyard of the main gate.

  The area was chaos, but not the kind that noticed them. Messengers were sprinting past, yelling about the flooding in the lower districts. The gate guards were distracted, looking toward the city center.

  "Take them," Alaric ordered.

  Bristane led the charge. The Grand Captain was a whirlwind of steel. He decapitated two guards before they could scream. The rest of the elites swarmed the gatehouse, silencing the sentries with brutal efficiency.

  They breached the mechanism room.

  Inside, the Gate Captain was shouting at his subordinates to keep the portcullis down. He turned just as the door exploded inward.

  Alaric stepped in, his hand-cannon raised.

  BANG.

  The Captain fell.

  "Raise the portcullis!" Alaric shouted. "Drop the bridge!"

  The knights seized the massive winches. With groans of effort, they began to turn the gears.

  CLANK... CLANK... CLANK...

  The heavy iron chains began to move.

  Outside, the main Shersian Army was waiting in the darkness, just beyond the fog.

  Duke Thorne sat atop his warhorse, his eyes fixed on the hazy outline of the gate. Beside him, King Eryndor watched with bated breath.

  Suddenly, a sound cut through the night not the roar of water, but the grinding of heavy machinery.

  Through the mist, the massive wooden drawbridge began to descend.

  BOOM.

  It hit the earth, bridging the moat.

  The portcullis rose slowly, revealing the empty, dark tunnel of the gatehouse.

  Duke Thorne drew his sword. The blade caught the moonlight.

  "For Shersia!" Thorne roared.

  "FOR SHERSIA!" thousands of soldiers screamed in unison.

  The cavalry charge shook the earth. The Shersian knights thundered across the bridge, tearing through the lingering fog like vengeful spirits.

  Inside the city, the Buckland defenders at the front finally realized their mistake. They turned from the flooded rear to see their front door wide open and an army pouring in.

  "We are breached!" the cry went up. "The Gate is lost!"

  It was too late. The trap had snapped shut.

  Alaric stood on the balcony of the gatehouse, watching the flood of steel enter the city. He holstered his gun, his face illuminated by the sparks of the invasion.

  Phase one was complete. Now, they had to find the commander.