The high map room of Fort Karst was located in the eight-sided watch-tower above the inner keep. Its narrow lancet windows were shuttered against the freezing draft with oiled sheepskin panes that diffused the pale winter light into a dull, amber haze.
Spread across the massive oak frame stand table was a set of four stone-built plans inscribed on yellowed calfskin thick parchment, dated sixty-four years past. The original construction schematics of the castle, drafted during the reign of the Second Duke of Khorat.
Ren stood with his sleeves tied back with waxed twine, his lambskin apron pulled tight against his ribs. In his right hand, he held his carved mammoth-bone awl, its silver tip tracing the faded brown iron-gall lines of the northern curtain wall.
Opposite him, leaning his iron-plated forearms on the edge of the table, was Lord Ren. The Emperor’s frost-wolf mantle was draped over a campaign chest, his scarred jaw stubbled with dark, silver-flecked whiskers. In his gauntleted hand, he held a heavy brass compass, its steel needle scratching tiny, violent arcs across the terrain contours of the Ashen Plains.
“Brand’s artillery train will consist of twelve-pounder and twenty-four-pounder smoothbore thunder-mortars,” Lord Ren said, his voice flat and analytical. “He will deploy them on the high spur of the Red Scree, eight hundred yards south-southwest. From that height, his gunners can drop explosive sulfur shells directly into the lower bailey, clearing the refugee camp and cracking our inner drop-gate within forty-eight hours.”
