Last night, the infiltrators had reached the Spire uncontested and made some headway before being shot off the walls. But the Spire was a mighty Tower, and even if it had fallen in disrepair and decay, it still had a few of the formidable defenses that had allowed its defenders to fend off even multiple warlocks working in tandem, coated in fresh sacrificial blood to bolster their power.

Today, however, those defenses would likely see no use. The Lotharians made no serious move to commit to a head-on attack. Master Garner and Chief watched from a balcony, enjoying the slightly biting cold morning, tired of being cooped up in the Watch-room. Though the sun was being often blocked by clouds, its clarity bled through and allowed them visibility that hadn’t been afforded by the previous night's pale moonlight. Forming on the field before them was a small recon unit - well, small for the size of the besieging army. They had more people there than there were inside the whole Spire, if Chief was any judge.

"Eighty?" he estimated, motioning his spear to encompass the formation.

"I would say that was a little too much for a probing action, but fitting for a Spire, I guess," replied his boss.

"Yes, but those are probably the least reliable bunch they could find," Chief observed, noticing the haphazard formation and its soldier's varied, and mostly shoddy, equipment. Light troops and skirmishers bolstered by mediocre practitioner talent, he would wager. Just enough that their loss would barely sting if they were wiped out, but also enough that they could probably reach the Spire and report back if they didn't face a serious opposition. Considering the small number of defenders, it was plain to see that they would use their wizards and mages sparingly, if it was possible.

"What do you think, Chief?" the wizard asked, pensive.

"I reckon that the 'full containment' plan we talked about in the war council might be our best bet."

Though the soon to be incoming enemies carried a battering ram, they were nothing but cannon fodder. There was no way they could break through the Spire's heavy gate anytime soon even if the ram was properly enchanted, and Chief would bet that theirs wasn’t. No sense in throwing expensive gear away after all. A Giant drone had been battering the gate for a while before the new tenants moved in, but it still held strong, with few scuff marks. Even if they hadn’t witnessed that, Lord Agor was no fool and would assume its strength.

“I’m not sure I like that plan, Chief. Shouldn’t we be keeping them *away* from the Spire?”

“Romer would be horrified at your lack of manners, Master. Is that how you want to receive our guests?” Chief quipped, getting a laugh out of Garner. He turned back to the Spire and gave his boss a sideways look.

“Go, Chief, go. Prepare them a reception that they never will forget.”

*

*

*

Captain “Lucky” Ignavian did not like his nickname. After all, he was not a lucky man, not by far. Soldiers loved its irony, though, after he drunkenly told them his story years ago, and so the name stuck. All his life, he’d been victim of circumstances he couldn’t control, always at the most inoportune times. He had worked hard at the farm to earn money and propose to his childhood crush from the village – his young brother proposed to her the same day that Ignavian got the damned ring. Bad luck. He’d inherited the farm, though, thankfully.

That was, until roving bandits decided to raid and raze it to the ground. Pretty bad luck. So, he’d joined the ranks of Westville's militia, working his way up to the rank of captain - a peaceful and cushy position. Until the Lotharians decided to drag them into this mess, that was, and he’d been the one picked to lead the incompetent bunch they had been strong-armed into sending with the damned red-capes. Worse luck.

At the Westernwood, cursed by annoying insects, the captain had been sent after the Army soldiers making a nuisance out of themselves, and he had even engaged their leader’s group, somehow even wounding the man. Of course, Captain Lamart escaped, and it was all deemed his fault, so he couldn’t boast about that. Now, to top it all off, he’d been picked to lead the very first attack against the bloodsdamned Spire. No punishment at all, but a great honor. He was lazy, unlucky and cowardly, not stupid.

“You may go, Captain. Good hunting!” exclaimed Lord Gaius. He bowed to the man (so he could safely roll his eyes out of view), and motioned his men forward.

Some of the soldiers were talking about how they would kick the wizards’ asses, show the Lotharians how it was done and the like. Boasting and blustering made him roll his eyes again – damn, that was becoming a habit. The ones who could rub two brain cell together were as enthusiastic as he was. Not that the officers assigned to this were in that category, with a single exception. His soldiers were a mess, his subordinates worthless.

There were levies from the Western villages, former bandits and convicts spared their due hanging, a few of his militiamen from Westville, grim soldiers from Arburgh and the dredge of the lotharians’ soldiery. Lieutenant Gander Arburgh lead the men and seemed to be an exceptional commander. What a waste. Not that the man had any favor to begin with, being forcefully ceded from his hometown like Ignavian himself, but he’d been marked when he loudly complained about the ambush at the parley, and so here he was with his well equipped people – a fortunate exception. The people from Arburgh had strong notions of honor.

They started advancing through the green fields separating them from the Spire. The people upfront had shields, though of varying sizes and formats. It was not long before arrows started raining down on them, felling and wounding men around him.

“Keep your shields high! Mages, where are my bloodsdamned Shields and Barriers?” Ignavus bellowed, instructing his soldiers, and then at his assigned practitioners, glaring at the dozen of mages who belatedly started humming and making complex hand movements to cast their spells. It took a while, and more men died, though thankfully there weren’t that many archers shooting at them.

“You didn’t order us to,” muttered one of the mages petulantly.

“Are you fucking stupid? I thought it was pretty clear you should be ready, seeing as we’re approaching a cursed fucking Spire!”

Incompetence was one thing, he could sympathize with that, but stupidity got his blood up easily. His anger temporarily allowed him to forget his pants-pissing fear. But his worse fears never materialized, and only arrows kept falling, rarely making in through the Shield above and never through the shields below.

As they got closer and closer, he finally allowed himself to think they were going to make it as far as the Spire, at least, though he was ready to be obliterated any time now. He was incredulous as they finally reached the gates, and his men whooped with glee. Some idiots fumbled the ram with their anxiety, and its wheels crushed feet, men screaming with the sudden pain and crippling.

“Godsdamned idiots!” Ignavus cursed, and them screamed at them furiously until slightly less dumber people got the ram back into position again. Some mages started fueling the enchantments as it swung backwards, readying for a blow.

Everything about this was strange to Ignavus, but it wasn’t like he had any other choice. Still, with his luck, he hadn’t stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was, then, dumfounded when the ram’s might blow actually pushed the door several centimeters back. Had they… forgotten to lock the gate? Everything inside was dark, though the sun’s light started dispelling the darkness as they pushed back the doors, though there were was little he could see a part from shadows of stairs.

“Good job, Captain Lucky!” praised Lieutenant Gandra, approaching him as the ram again hit the gates, pushing them back. “Maybe we should ready the push forward?”

“Yeah, yeah, send the lighter soldiers first with that annoying lieutenant, the one with the funny accent,” he replied, barely paying attention. A grim, very grim feeling had overcome him. Either this was a very lucky happening, or a terrible trap. His nickname, however, as he well knew, was ironic.

Lieutenant Gandra reminded the advancing lieutenant to light torches, but the darkness proved to be unnatural, refusing to be dispersed by simples firelight. The fool advanced at the head of his men before the mages were even done casting their light spell, making Lucky shake his head at the foolishness.

No arrow or spell descended on the fool, however. Warily, the entire group entered the place, looking all around them expectantly for the enemy. They didn’t find any – for now. There were stairs, lots of stairs that climbed upwards into the high ceiling, though it seemed to be disorderly. There was a strange statue standing next to the door, but Lucky had more to worry about now. All the Spire’s magelights were unpowered, but the spells indicated that something was off about the situation.

“All right, ten of you and two mages, stay here with me. Lieutenants, divide the rest among you and search for the enemy. Gandra, your group guards the stairs of the second floor. Send a runner for us as soon as you engage the enemy. Godspeed to you all.”

Besides that, he sent a runner back to the camp to warn the lotharians that the doors were wide open. For some reason, he was sure that wouldn’t have the effect he desired. After some arguing and haggling, the lieutenants divided the men among them, keeping mostly to their original allegiances. Only the men of Arburgh had a completely original group, though.

The former bandits decided to head down, figuring it had the least chance of finding enemies, and a reasonable one to get anything precious out of the officer’s eyes. Instead, they found only wooden statues, and cursed, wondering what the hell was the place’s fixation with the things. The second group, composed mostly of irregulars from small towns picked one of the stairs randomly, as did the third one, made up by and large of lotharians.

Captain Lucky’s group waited. After one hour without receiving a single communication, either a runner or a Message, he got even more worried, and started grumbling. And where the hell was the runner he’d sent for the camp?

“I can go look for him, captain,” one of his men, from his city, volunteered when he overheard that last phrase.

“Oh, I said that out loud? That’s a good idea, go.”

The men went outside, but returned not soon after that.

“Is he coming back already?” he asked, surprised.

“I would say he isn’t, captain, but I’ve heard they got a necromancer around here…”

Lucky swore and went to the door, seeing the same thing his man had. The messenger had been shot down by an arrow halfway – no idea if he’d been felled when going or returning. Either way, the Lotharians obviously must have seen him entering. The silence was fraying his nerves, and he went back inside. He asked his mages to send Messages. No one replied.

“Gather around me, people! Something isn’t right, we’re leaving!”

That was when something behind him moved. Lucky turned back and the statue moved – and kept moving. It unhurriedly closed the heavy doors as he and his dumbfounded people watched.

That was when he heard noise coming from the stairs – they were not his troops.

“Oh, Lucky my ass,” the captain swore.

*

*

*

A group led by Tara had been kept downstairs to make sure the imprisoned creature wasn’t, accidentally or otherwise, released and to back up the Brawler golems if they had problems. Lowa directed the creatures, gazing at the main room through a porthole, on the second underground level. The golems had no problem at all.

The would-be-raiders hadn’t found a thing worth looking thus far, and decided to take a better look at the weird statues. They called for their unwilling mages to look for magical properties on the things. They never had a chance to warn the others. With Lowa’s command, the Golems suddenly moved, and the practitioners were too surprised to dodge the lumbering fists. One was crushed to a pulp, the other was thrown away like a ragdoll, knocking down other bandits.

She only lost a single golem to the last desperate bandit. She got all of them, the runners were captured by the golems she had left at the first underground level. She hadn’t taken pleasure at the massacre, but she smiled and went down to let Tara know.

*

The second group reached the third floor and a host of varied and slightly defective golems fell upon them, killing and wounding many. The green villagers promptly panicked, running over the officer that demanded them to stand and fight. They were simple folk, so the warriors appeared and herded the survivors instead of simply slaughtering them all.

*

The lotharians picked the biggest stair, one that had exits only at the top of the Spire. They were met by a group a ways above them, of which the smiling Mons caught their attention the most, waving genially at them. Besides Mons, though, there were Scythers – many of them. Wilhelm ordered them forwards. The weak of stomach had to look away from the result. Mons, he just whistled, surprised that some of the gore had nearly reached them. Wilhelm laughed at the carnage.

Mons gave the man a worried glance, but he had to agree with one thing. It was way better when those things were on their side.

*

The Arburgh men at the second floor, though, had a different fate. The Guardian overheard their conversations and was forced to bring a fact to the Steward’s notice, as he’d been expressly ordered to tell him anything that might be helpful. Lieutenant Gandra’s proud men would rather fight besides the defenders than against them. With the inside knowledge, Master Garner’s recruitment pitch went off without a hitch. Well, besides the lotharian mage that tried to assassinate him when he realized the soldiers were turning coats. The second one was smarter, he raised his hands – and he lived.