Dawn broke cold and grey over the Disputed Lands. The Wolf Pack's banner snapped sharply in the chill morning wind, the running wolves vivid against the pale sky.
Gendry took a deep breath, tasting the sharp, metallic tang of the distant sea. The detachment had marched out of the fire-weed estate at first light, escorting four heavy, slave-drawn wagons packed to the brim with dried, roasted fire-weed. Their destination was a hidden cove on the coast, where a pre-arranged fleet of smuggler galleys waited to ferry the cargo directly into Myr's harbor.
Historically, the Calasso harvests were transported by land along the main trade roads. But with the Disputed Lands currently swarming with rival mercenary armies, Pretty Boy had made the tactical decision to cut cross-country toward the sea. The coastal route was a treacherous, broken goat path, but a ship would reach Myr in a fraction of the time a wagon train could.
However, hiding four massive, creaking wagons and a column of armored cavalry was impossible. The harvest season was a known calendar event, and the slow-moving slave draft animals severely limited their pace.
"Four outriders to the front! Four to the rear!" Pretty Boy commanded, selecting the sharpest-eyed veterans. "Cavalry on the flanks! The wagons, infantry, and archers hold the center! Everyone wears steel today. Helmets, mail, plate. Even the slaves wear boiled leather."
By mid-morning, the rear outriders came galloping back, their horses lathered in sweat.
"Riders on our tail!" the scout reported breathlessly. "Bandit-knights and escaped slaves. They've been shadowing us since we cleared the hills!"
They found us, Gendry thought, his gauntleted hand tightening around the haft of his warhammer.
"We took this miserable coastal path specifically to lose them," Pretty Boy swore, his scarred face darkening. "They must have laid ambushes on the main roads and pivoted the moment their scouts spotted us. Push the pace! Whip the draft beasts if you must. We don't stop until we reach the ships."
Pretty Boy spurred his horse, galloping up and down the length of the column. "They outnumber us, and they are hunting us from the shadows! Are you afraid, brothers?"
"No!" the mercenaries roared back.
"Wolves do not fear the dark! Let the Southerners weep and wring their hands! We are men of the North!" Pretty Boy shouted, slapping his gauntlet against his breastplate. "The tactic today is simple: Courage! We hold the line. If it comes to it, we dump cargo to slow them down. As long as the majority of the wagons reach the ships, we win!"
He drew his longsword, raising it high. "Winter is coming! The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives! If the Old Gods and the New still favor us, we will ride over their bones!"
"The Pack survives!" the mercenaries bellowed, their voices ringing with iron resolve.
Pretty Boy rode over to where Gendry and Qyburn rode near the center of the formation. "Pup, you and the Maester stay here and guard the wagons."
"Captain, put me in the vanguard," Gendry requested, hefting his warhammer. "My hammer hasn't had its fill."
"Good lad," Pretty Boy chuckled, patting Gendry's pauldron. But his voice dropped to a serious whisper. "The Pack is fearless, but we need our pups to live. Guard your life today, Hammer. The widows and children back at the Wolf's Den will need your strength in the years to come."
From dawn until noon, Purplebeard's scouts harassed the rear of the column. They kept their distance, occasionally firing loose, inaccurate crossbow bolts that clattered harmlessly against the wagons before galloping away. It was a classic delaying tactic, designed to exhaust the Wolf Pack and slow their march.
"I smell a slaughter," Pretty Boy muttered, eyeing the horizon. "The scouts are just trying to pin us in place until their main host catches up."
The terrain ahead flattened out into a wide, gently sloping plain leading toward the cliffs. It was terrible ground for an ambush, but perfect ground for a pitched, bloody battle.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The heavy, rhythmic pounding of war drums echoed across the plain. A massive, dark horde crested the hills behind them like a thunderhead. The combined forces of Purplebeard's bandit-knights and runaway slaves took the high ground, looking down at the Wolf Pack. Without the high stone walls of the estate to protect them, the mercenaries were severely exposed.
Gendry pulled his heavy bull-horned helm over his head and locked his grip on his shield.
"Leave the wagons, and I'll let you walk away with your lives!" Purplebeard's voice boomed down from the ridge.
"We may not be the Golden Company, but we don't break our contracts to scum like you!" Pretty Boy shouted back, his voice dripping with venom.
Up on the ridge, Purplebeard pointed a gauntleted finger at the horned giant sitting on horseback behind Pretty Boy.
"That is him, Lord Bardak. That is the one who crushed Khrazz the Rust," Purplebeard told the massive man standing beside him.
The new Meereenese gladiator, Bardak, squinted down at Gendry. Bardak was an absolute giant, with dark, heavily scarred skin and a shaved head. He wielded a wickedly sharp spear and wore nothing but a leather harness dyed black and red.
"That boy in the iron mask killed Khrazz?" Bardak rumbled, his voice thick and guttural.
"With a warhammer. Crushed his chest," Purplebeard confirmed.
"I will kill him and eat his heart. The heart of a strong warrior makes a gladiator invincible," Bardak growled, licking his lips. "Khrazz was arrogant, but he won fifty bouts in the Great Pit of Daznak. If this boy killed him, his heart is a prize."
"Lord Bardak, I strongly advise you to put on a mail shirt," Purplebeard suggested mildly. "Riding into a heavy cavalry melee without armor is suicide."
"Armor is for cowards who fear the cut!" Bardak spat, looking utterly disgusted. Purplebeard simply shrugged and said no more. In the fighting pits of Meereen, armor was despised; the crowds paid to see speed, skill, and flying blood, not men hiding behind steel plates.
"Hold your knights back," Purplebeard quietly ordered his paymaster. "The Magister's orders were to delay the Wolf Pack and seize the fire-weed, not die in a glorious charge against Northern veterans."
"But how will we break their lines without the heavy horse?" the paymaster asked nervously.
"We don't. We let the Meereenese fool and the slaves soften them up," Purplebeard sneered coldly. "If we die here, what good is the Magister's gold? Let the slaves bleed the Wolf Pack. If an opening appears, we strike. If not, we wait."
Purplebeard raised his hand and dropped it.
With a roaring cheer, Bardak charged down the hill, leading a chaotic, screaming horde of hundreds of runaway slaves armed with rusted meat cleavers, pitchforks, and stolen swords.
"Here comes the Meereenese boar," Pretty Boy scoffed, drawing his sword.
"Archers! Draw!" Fletcher Dick commanded from the center of the formation. "Loose!"
A volley of heavy yew arrows hissed into the air, plunging down into the charging mob in a deadly arc. Without shields or armor, the runaway slaves were slaughtered by the dozen. Men fell screaming, clutching shafts buried deep in their chests and throats.
Only Bardak possessed the agility to weave through the plunging fire. Though his horse took an arrow to the neck and collapsed, the massive gladiator rolled gracefully to his feet and sprinted the rest of the way, outpacing the surviving slaves to hit the Wolf Pack's line entirely alone.
"Cowards!" Bardak roared, glancing back over his shoulder. Purplebeard and his armored knights were still sitting comfortably atop the ridge, watching the slaughter.
Thwack.
Fletcher Dick drew and released in a heartbeat. The arrow buried itself deep into Bardak's left shoulder, spraying bright red blood across his black leather harness.
"Cowards hiding in iron boxes!" Bardak howled in rage, ignoring the arrow as he thrust his spear forward.
Pretty Boy spurred his horse to meet him. Bardak's spear was incredibly fast, striking like a viper. Pretty Boy swung his longsword, but the heavy steel was too slow to catch the agile shaft. The spearhead slashed across Pretty Boy's cheek, opening a bloody gash. But the veteran commander didn't flinch. He leaned into the cut and brought his sword down, slicing a deep gash into Bardak's unarmored forearm.
"Die!" Gendry roared, his blood igniting as he saw his commander bleed. He drove his horse forward, his warhammer whistling through the air.
"Iron coward!" Bardak screamed, thrusting his spear upward at an impossible angle toward Gendry's throat.
Gendry didn't even try to dodge. He simply raised his oak buckler, taking the spear point directly into the wood. The heavy iron beak of his warhammer continued its arc unimpeded, crashing squarely into Bardak's face with the sickening sound of shattering bone. The giant gladiator crumpled into the dirt, instantly dead.
Qyburn spurred his horse forward as the surviving slaves finally crashed into the vanguard.
"Dump the rear crates!" Pretty Boy roared over the din of battle, wiping blood from his cheek as he looked up at the bandit-knights still waiting on the hill. "Dump the fire-weed and ride!"
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