The night was a rain of stone.
Massive Myrish boulders shrieked through the darkness, shattering the battlements of the Wolf's Den and sending plumes of dust and debris into the crowded streets. The Magisters' "gifts" were clumsy but persistent, focused on the towers and the main gates. Bloodbeard had established a relentless rhythm, battering the estate's shell to soften it for the dawn assault.
But the darkness was Gendry's ally. In the Hour of the Wolf—that cold, liminal space before the sun dared to rise—the "Liberator" prepared his answer.
Gendry stood by the eastern gate, his breath visible in the freezing air. Behind him sat four hundred Wolf Pack knights, their plate armor darkened with soot to dull the glint of torchlight. Following them were two thousand infantry: four hundred heavy plate-clad Wolf Pack veterans under Iron Fist, and sixteen hundred Free Army soldiers led by Grey Wolf.
Grey Wolf stood at the head of the infantry, flanked by the fifteen surviving Unsullied. Their bronze helms gleamed, and their faces were masks of stone. Each man carried three spears, a shortsword, and a shield. They did not fidget; they did not pray. They simply waited for the steel to sing.
"The town isn't a fortress," Gendry said to his commanders. "If we sit behind these walls, they will eventually turn this place into a tomb. We strike now, while they are tired from the night-watch."
"The plan remains the same," Gendry continued, his voice low and hard. "The cavalry takes the rear. We bypass the main line and head straight for the trebuchets. Don't get bogged down in a frontal grind against Bloodbeard's center."
"Our targets are the engines—Wolfslayer, Lady of Myr, and Pride of Myr," Longspear added. "Burn them or break them. If we take their teeth, we take their courage."
Iron Fist adjusted his deformed visor. "And the tents. Burn the command pavilions. Let them wake up in a fire they didn't start."
"No taking slaves," Grey Wolf rasped. "Slaves are brothers. Kill the masters. Kill the officers."
Gendry looked toward the horizon. A sliver of grey was beginning to eat away at the black. He donned his wolf-headed helm, the iron cold against his skin. He didn't believe in the Seven, but he found himself whispering a silent plea to the Warrior for the strength to strike, and to the Crone for the wisdom to lead his men back alive.
"Perhaps I'll die in a woman's arms, or perhaps on a field of ice," Longspear shouted, his voice cracking the silence. "But it won't be today!"
"OPEN THE GATES!" Gendry roared.
The heavy timber swung wide, and the "Hammer" erupted.
The charge was a flood of iron. Four hundred destriers hammered the flat plains of the Disputed Lands, their hooves a rhythmic thunder that shook the ground.
Bloodbeard was caught off guard, but he was a veteran of a thousand skirmishes. He scrambled to his feet, roaring for the Company of the Cat to form a spear-wall. "Where is the Spear Company? Where are my eight hundred horse?"
"They're pinned, Commander!" a scout screamed. "The slave-archers are raining arrows from the treeline. They can't find the range in the dark!"
Fletcher Dick's longbowmen were doing their work, their cloth-yard shafts falling from the sky like the wrath of gods. The Spear Company, caught in the open, was forced to hunker behind their shields, unable to counter-charge.
"Ignore them!" Gendry shouted to his riders. "TO THE SONS!"
Gendry pivoted his wedge toward the left flank, where the Second Sons were stationed. Under Mero, the "Titan's Bastard," the company had become a shadow of its former self. Their mail was rusted, their shields were cracked, and their morale was as thin as their soup.
The Wolf Pack hit them like a falling mountain.
Gendry led from the front, his black sand steed leaping over a makeshift barricade. He swung his spiked warhammer in a wide, horizontal arc. The iron head smashed through a Second Son's rusted breastplate, the kinetic force caving in the man's chest and sending him flying into his comrades.
Crunch.
Shatter.
Gendry was a whirlwind of black iron. His hammer rose and fell, pulverizing helms and shattering the arms of those who tried to block him. Behind him, the knights of the Wolf Pack tore through the Second Sons' line like a hot blade through wax.
Mero, seeing his company dissolving into chaos, blew a frantic blast on his horn, calling for help that wouldn't come. He tried to rally a pocket of resistance, but the sheer momentum of Gendry's "Storm's Blood" was unstoppable.
"BURN THE ENGINES!" Gendry's voice boomed above the screams.
He spurred his horse toward the massive silhouette of the Wolfslayer. The second Myrish war had truly begun, and the Hammer was already at the throat of the Cat.
~~----------------------
Patreon Advance Chapters:
[email protected] / Dreamer20