The Old City

0.9: No Plan is Perfect

All plans are built upon the foundation of hope. Hope that your decisions are right...that your assumptions are right...that you can execute it effectively. When doubt creeps in and plans melt to shit, all that remains is instinct. Instinct, that unfair determinant of success, that you are born with and cannot change. Because so much is liable to go so wrong so often, even the best plans truly amount to little more than luck, and luck had never looked favorably upon the First Ring of Soran.

This fatalistic view of planning and fate and luck struck Marek as unintelligible. Surely, thought he, a careful examination of all known factors in a situation could unveil some sequence of maneuvers that would lead to success. Money trades hands, a backroom door is opened, an unfavorable rumor spreads. Any number of levers can be pulled to drive their goals home.

During his rise to bring the Silver Bears among the top gangs in Soran, he never faced a problem without a solution. He acquired assets that allowed him to outmaneuver his rivals. He once had Firkaan kill a rival's child to unsettle him before they fought. His lieutenant tested Pernita's resolve to join their gang by having her slaughter some fat merchant's crew so they could steal his supplies. Hostages? Fear? These were Marek's tools of choice.

And so it was that as he darted around a corner to hide, blood dripping into his eye from an open cut and his comrades' bodies splayed about like ragdolls, having connived to gain any advantage today, he fought against the doubt that crept nearer and scrambled to figure out what part of the plan he had fucked up.

***

One hour earlier...

"Is everyone in place?" Marek whispered. The second squad was stretching and reviewing details of their strategy by dim candlelight. They were as ready for this battle as they could have been. A few yawns peppered their excited ranks as the last beams of moonlight trickled in from windows above. It was still early. The perfect time to launch an attack.

"All clear on my side," came Boyar's voice through their communications gem. "We will head out on your signal." He and the third squad had holed up in the Silver Bears' other hideout, just at the eastern border of Black Phoenix territory. They had finally gathered all their foot soldiers; every one carried a weapon and knew their job. The air hummed with anticipation for this, their biggest fight.

"Take your positions!" Marek shouted. Twenty fighters lined up at each of the room's two exits. Their ten groups of four would spread across the easternmost Black Phoenix stronghold and bombard it from every direction while Boyar's squad would circle around from the north to intercept any Black Phoenix members who tried to enclose their position.

"Steady yourselves!" His men knelt and prepared to jump out of the doors. Greater victory than they knew laid beyond them. All they had to do was trust in Marek's plan. It was so simple.

"Go," Marek whispered, opening the door on the left. The second squad fanned out and crept down alleyways making toward the Black Phoenix's base. Few were out in this predawn hour, so they moved without resistance or much notice. Those who did scurried out of their way and back to their homes.

"We're in position," came Boyar's update on the comms gem.

When Marek arrived at his target, a pale blue building that was somebody's unfortunate home, he knelt and watched his men do the same at nearby buildings. "We just got here. Move in five." He glanced around the corner and observed the object of their siege. It was a small, circular building in the middle of Via Ruonant, one of the widest roads in the First Ring that connected the docks to the Grand Bazaar. He knew it was well-connected to the Underground, so Marek stationed two teams at known entrances nearby. They would kill anyone who tried to double back behind them, though part of him worried about the entrances he did not know about. Nobody, even a trueborn Soranian, knew all the Underground's secrets.

"Archers first," Marek whispered. Eight of his soldiers stepped forward and nocked their arrows. "There are three guards, not heavily armed so they must be mages. Let's take them out quietly then move forward. On my mark."

He waited a few moments to see if their rotation might change, but they held steady. One always stayed by the door, while the other two circumnavigated the building at opposite ends. When one of the walking guards just crossed out of view, Marek shouted, "Fire!"

They rained down a barrage of arrows on the stationary guard and the one who had just come into view. Caught unawares, both crumbled softly to the ground without much of a sound.

"Archers, work your way to the right and fire as soon as you see the other guard. Everyone else, with me."

Marek took a few staccato breaths to steel himself, then turned the corner and sprinted toward the entrance. Time became very quick after that.

After a few steps, the ground trembled. A man – no, a giant – loomed overhead, having jumped from the top of the Black Phoenix building. Its gnarled face grinned as new prey entered its field of view. He stood as tall as eight men with thick, grotesque muscles that threatened to crush anyone who came within reach.

But Marek's men were already within range. With a powerful swipe of the hand, this monster crushed five of them and generated a gust so strong that everyone else was thrown backward several yards. Its roar was like thunder, and every building within fifty feet lost its windows, shattering against the force of its voice alone.

The minute after stepping into view of the Black Phoenix stronghold, Marek realized the situation was wrong.

By the second minute, he knew they needed a new plan.

By the third, he was sprinting back, trying to figure out why his men were being slaughtered in every direction.

Why the fuck is Granada here and not in the north?