The hour Deacon had bought himself to prepare for the defense meeting was less a period of reflection and more a frantic, internal intelligence drill.
He paced the Castellan's Office, his mind chewing through the limited data. Oakhaven. Small, walled city. Near-famine conditions. Previous command abuse. Defense force: one hundred poorly equipped militia. Immediate threat: Goblins, gathering in the Blackwood.
Elara returned swiftly, placing a thick slice of dry bread and some goat cheese on the desk—the "incapacitating" food of the previous Lord, apparently. Alongside it sat a steaming metal mug.
"The coffee, My Lord?" she asked, a frown touching her lips.
Deacon took a careful sip. It was an acrid, earthy brew, likely roasted roots or grains, bitter as motor oil and mercifully hot. He nodded, satisfied. "It will suffice. Now, tell me about Commander Harl."
"Harl is loyal, My Lord. A man of honor, but… simple. He commanded the town watch under your father. He believes defense is about holding a line, nothing more. He has no great love for you, as your father neglected the Watch, but he loves Oakhaven."
A predictable commander. Easy to manipulate, hard to inspire.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Elara quickly announced: "Commander Harl and his lieutenants are here."
Deacon sat behind the heavy wooden desk, adopting a posture of casual but unyielding authority. "Send them in."
The Defensive Review
Commander Harl entered first, a man built like a barrel with a rough, weather-beaten face. He was flanked by two nervous-looking subordinates: a lean, pale man with darting eyes, and a stout woman whose face was set in a permanent scowl. They wore worn leather jerkins and carried dented shortswords. They did not salute; they simply bowed stiffly.
"My Lord Cassian," Harl rumbled, his voice thick with apprehension. "The threat is severe. The Scouts report Goblins, maybe three hundred strong, moving closer to the old King's Road. They could be here in three days, maybe four. What orders do you give?"
Deacon bypassed the small talk. "Commander, I require an objective assessment of our defensive posture. No optimism, no fear. Just facts. Give me the state of the walls, the readiness of the militia, and our armament."
Harl looked startled by the directness but seemed to appreciate it. He stepped forward and gestured to the wall. "The city wall is stone, My Lord, but it has not been maintained in decades. The northern face is solid. The southern stretch, near the river gate, has a section where the mortar is loose as dirt. We'd be fools to rely on it."
Deacon's Mental S-3 Report (Operations): Wall integrity: Compromised. Need immediate engineering survey and repair.
"The militia?" Deacon prompted.
"Ninety-seven men and women," Harl reported grimly. "They are farmers and blacksmiths. We drill with spears once a week. Morale is low. If they see too many Goblins, they will scatter, and I won't blame them. Their only combat experience is chasing rats out of the granaries."
Deacon's Mental S-1 Report (Personnel): Manpower: Untrained, brittle. Cannot hold the line. Need to use them for targeted, specific actions—not a linear defense.
"Armaments?"
"We have spears, some crossbows, and maybe forty shields. No oil for the ramparts. Very little pitch. We have enough arrows for one sustained assault, and the metal tips are soft. We have nothing truly capable of stopping a determined charge."
Deacon's Mental S-4 Report (Logistics): Supply: Below critical levels. Cannot sustain a defense. Must use tactics to offset matériel deficit.
Deacon leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Thank you, Commander Harl. The situation is catastrophic, but we will fix it. My priority is to save every soul in this city, not just beat the Goblins back."
He looked at the map Elara had spread—a rough parchment depiction of Oakhaven. "Tell me the usual Goblin tactic."
"They mass," Harl replied. "They rush the weakest point. They burn and take whatever they can carry. Savages."
Deacon tapped the southern wall near the river gate—Harl's weakest point. "This is what they expect. We will give them something else."
He launched into a briefing that was wholly unfamiliar to the medieval soldiers: "We will establish three concentric rings of defense. The inner ring is the Hold—a safe zone for the elderly and children. The second ring is the street line—chokepoints. The first ring is outside the gate."
Harl looked appalled. "Outside the gate, My Lord? That is suicide!"
"It is a Kill Zone," Deacon corrected him, using the voice of a man who'd planned hundreds of them. "We are going to give them a distraction at the river gate—a minor force of the least crucial militia—and we are going to draw the majority of the enemy force into the bottleneck of the North Road. We will use the few resources we have—pitch, rocks, even manure—to create a non-linear, multi-directional engagement. The key is to break their cohesion."
Harl stared, visibly struggling to follow the strategic leap from 'hold the wall' to 'break their cohesion.' "My Lord, with respect, who will execute this flanking maneuver? I have no men for that."
Deacon gave him a chilling, non-committal smile. "I am aware, Commander. You will continue to train your militia to hold the line at the North Gate. But I will need to call upon other resources the previous Lord neglected. Resources that will operate outside the typical Chain of Command. Covert assets."
Harl's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of understanding mixed with deep suspicion. He clearly thought Deacon was referring to some hidden, disgraced noble legion.
"Focus on the North Gate, Commander. I will focus on the river wall and the assets needed to turn this into a trap."
Harl stood rigid. "I will follow the orders of the Castellan, My Lord."
"Good. Now go. Train them until they bleed. We have three days."
The Unburdening of Brandt
Harl and his subordinates filed out, confusion warring with duty in their faces. Deacon had given them something to do—a goal, however incomprehensible the strategy.
He leaned back, exhausted by the effort of maintaining the deception. The tension in the office was immediately replaced by a different kind of anxiety when Elara announced: "The merchant Brandt is here with the grain sacks, My Lord."
"Send him in. And leave us."
Brandt entered the office, followed by two laborers carrying heavy sacks. He was indeed a stocky, powerful man, his face dirtier now, but his eyes were sharp. He dismissed the laborers with a single, curt gesture and approached the desk.
"My Lord Castellan," Brandt said, bowing low. The words were respectful, but the tone beneath was a low, military rasp. "I have the sacks you requested."
"Thank you, Brandt. They are sorely needed," Deacon said, his voice level. He motioned to the largest sack, which bore the single blue knot. "Is this the best grain in the lot?"
Brandt stood rigidly upright, his chest swelling with the deep breath he took. He wasn't looking at Deacon's face, but at his hands.
"SFC Hayes," Brandt whispered, the title a desperate, swallowed prayer. "Is it… is it really you? We thought we were alone. We thought we were dead. I'm—I'm Specialist Four Victor 'Vic' Ruiz, FOB Bastion Logistics. I'm the Castellan's cook's husband now. This… this is insane."
Deacon felt a powerful surge of empathy mixed with a jolt of professional steel. He had to reassure him, but he could not break cover.
"Brandt," Deacon said, his voice louder than necessary, emphasizing the new name. "You are an essential supplier of Oakhaven, and you are speaking to the Castellan." He kept his tone cold, the tone of a superior correcting a grievous error in protocol.
He spoke about the grain, but every syllable was Morse Code.
"The quality of the Grain is paramount. The people Need Rations. Tell your contacts to Meet me At the Tavern—no, tell them to Do Nothing. All Contact Is Cut Until Further Notice. Too Risky."
Brandt's eyes, focused on the blue knot, betrayed the processing of the message. G-N-R-M-A-T... D-N... A-C-I-C-U-F-N. T-R. "GN: Rally. MA: At. DN: Do Nothing. ACICUFN: All Contact Is Cut Until Further Notice. TR: Too Risky."
The immediate order: Hold position. Don't move. Don't risk the mission.
Ruiz, trapped in Brandt's body, finally met Deacon's eyes. They were swimming with a mixture of terror, hope, and professional discipline.
"My Lord," Brandt/Ruiz managed, his voice now properly subservient. "The grain is the best in the south quadrant. But… there is trouble. My wife has been tending to our neighbor's boy. He is Corporal Jared Thorne's new body. Thorne… he can't cope, My Lord. He keeps weeping and calling for his real wife. He's going to break cover."
Deacon felt a cold knot form in his gut. Thorne was a good Marine, but emotionally volatile. The psychological damage was already setting in.
"Brandt," Deacon said, taking the grain sack and inspecting the blue knot closely. "Your wife's neighbor must be taken care of. He is ill. If he is not quiet and compliant, he must be isolated. Tell your wife that the Castellan, out of the generosity of his heart, will send a personal physician to ensure the neighbor is placed under full and quiet care. Do you understand? This care cannot be refused."
Ruiz must isolate Thorne. Thorne cannot expose the lily pad.
Ruiz's expression hardened into the grim acceptance of a mission. "I understand the… gravity of the illness, My Lord. My wife will comply with the Castellan's wishes. Thorne will be… quiet."
"Good." Deacon clapped him once on the shoulder—a gesture of noble authority masking a Sergeant's shared resolve. "Now go. And Brandt? If anyone—anyone—asks you about this meeting, you discussed the taxation of flour, nothing more."
"Understood, My Lord." Ruiz bowed deeply and quickly exited, his gait now carrying a distinct military precision that hadn't been there when he entered.
Deacon stood alone again, the smell of acrid coffee and parchment filling the air. He had confirmed one man, issued his first covert command, and received his first casualty report: PFC Thorne, psychological breakdown, requires immediate isolation.
He walked to the window and looked out at the walls. He had no men, no weapons, and three days. But somewhere out there, hidden in the kitchens, stables, and fields of Oakhaven, was a highly trained, deeply scarred unit of American soldiers, waiting for their next orders.
He had just given them the first one: Hold.