Blood smeared the ground. Gendry's warhammer was soaked in it, and the air was thick with the stink of blood and the cries of the wounded. Black scale armor, a spiked warhammer, an oak shield. In Gendry's blue eyes, fire burned.
"Fall back!" Purplebeard blurted as he saw Rust collapse. The Meereenese gladiator was now just a corpse, his insides shattered. Rust had been the pillar these bandit Sellswords relied on, brutal and strong, and yet he had died so miserably.
The bandit Sellswords abandoned their dead and scattered in panic. Only the bloody stench lingered, and Purplebeard escaped only because his men threw themselves into the fight to cover his retreat.
He glanced back and saw the warrior who had beaten the Meereenese to death. Standing beside the body, he looked like a killing god bringing the storm.
Where did the Wolf Pack find a man like that? Purplebeard wondered. This had been a catastrophic loss. If he meant to come again, he would need more men, and better ones.
"Strip anything useful off them," the Wolf Pack began shouting as they moved through the bodies. "Weapons, armor, supplies, coin. Don't waste any horses that are still alive. Then burn the corpses!"
They started clearing the battlefield, dragging their own fallen out of the heaps. Of the ten mounted men who had ridden out, three were dead. Purplebeard's bandit Sellswords had lost several times that number.
Gendry made his way back to Morningstar. Only then did he notice the dull ache in his elbow. Swinging a warhammer took more than strength; it took skill, and the Meereenese had been vicious. The strike under Morningstar's armpit had been a killing blow. Plate armor was not invincible. Where pieces joined, there were always weak points, always gaps a blade could find.
Gendry stared at Morningstar's pale face as Longspear and Handsome Man came up behind him.
"Morningstar's dead, lad," Longspear said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You did well. A man who avenges his companion is a lucky one."
"I killed the enemy," Gendry said quietly, "but I couldn't save him."
Longspear thought for a moment and said nothing. On the battlefield, Gendry had fought like a raging giant, but he was still just a boy.
"Take one more look at him," Handsome Man said, watching Gendry. "More fights are waiting for us. For a newcomer, you're the best I've ever seen, but every one of us has to cross this threshold."
Gendry and the others waited until the manor's slaves came out. They loaded their fallen brothers onto a cart first, then began counting the bandit Sellswords' dead. Maester Qyburn emerged as well, binding the wounds of those lightly injured or bruised from falls.
Handsome Man left Gendry and continued roaming the field, stripping armor and coins from the corpses. There were helmets and gold, but nothing marked with writing. It was hard to tell where these bandit knights had come from.
"A hammer really is vicious," Handsome Man said, crouching beside the Meereenese and pulling back the gladiator's mail as he spoke. Gendry's earlier blow had been heavy enough to crush the man's heart, caving in the chest and breaking bone. A hammer was a blunt weapon, its force gathered into one brutal point. Heavy. Ruthless.
"But we've made ourselves trouble," Handsome Man added, studying the dead man's features. Rust-colored hair. A tall, quick body. A Meereenese gladiator was not cheap. Where would a bandit crew get the gold to hire one?
"A skilled Meereenese is worth a fortune," Longspear said, frowning. "Whoever is moving against the Magister must be a very important Myrish figure. Tell the steward. Get the message back to Myr."
"Yes," Handsome Man said. "We were lucky. Iron Hammer dealt with him. That arakh is a nasty thing to face."
"But who would strike at the manor?" Handsome Man muttered. "There are too many possibilities. Merchants hoarding fire herb, other estate owners, or simply the Magister's enemies. But the cost of hiring bandit Sellswords and a Meereenese like that would be staggering. They wouldn't do it without enough profit."
"Enough. Haul all the bodies back into the estate. Let the steward carry the news."
"This one has a fine body," Qyburn murmured, staring at Rust's corpse. "If only he were taller and stronger."
"Now isn't the time," Gendry said. Qyburn was still thinking about an "Invincible Warrior."
When rows of corpses were laid out inside the fire herb estate, the atmosphere turned taut and strained.
"Thirteen bandit Sellswords," someone reported. "We lost three brothers. The runaway slaves aren't even counted."
"There have always been thieves trying to steal or snatch fire herb," the estate steward said, his face pale as he looked over the bodies, "but never on this scale."
"Send word to the Magister," Handsome Man said. "If this truly is his enemy, they'll strike in Myr and the Disputed Lands at the same time."
...
The noise at the fire herb estate had yet to fully die down when Gendry returned to his room.
He removed his black scale armor. In Westeros, that was usually a squire's job.
"You were fortunate, Prince. You weren't hurt," Qyburn said. "Small scrapes don't matter. What's truly dangerous are deep cuts and puncture wounds. Once they fester, they can be fatal."
"Is there a noble who looks more disheveled than I do?" Gendry laughed softly. For now, he was still just a Sellsword, charging across the battlefield on courage and strength alone.
"Heroes wait for the storm," Qyburn said. "Orys was nothing more than a bastard of Dragonstone, yet by following the Conqueror, House Baratheon rose in a single leap to become the youngest of the Seven Kingdoms' great houses. The Seven have granted you courage, strength, and blood. You should seize this chance."
"Chaos may be coming," Maester Qyburn continued. "A Meereenese gladiator is far beyond what ordinary men can afford. The only real possibility is a wealthy Magister willing to fight the estate's owner head-on. Our employer is now standing on the edge of danger."
"I never expected the Meereenese to appear," Gendry said, recalling the fight. "They want to bring the Magister down."
"From what I know, the Wolf Pack has long served this Magister because the daughter of one of their captains married into his family," Qyburn said. "In truth, the Wolf Pack is already bound to the Myrish. One rises, all rise. If the estate's master is in danger, then so are we." He gestured to himself and Gendry.
"Chaos breeds slaughter. The struggle for power among the Myrish rivals anything in Westeros."
"No. It's worse than Westeros.
During the Bloodbath of Myr, two rival factions fought for control of the city, unleashing waves of assassinations, riots, poisonings, rape, hangings, torture, and naval battles. The losing side was driven from the city. After the Lys Spring, Magister Torreo was poisoned at the banquet celebrating his election as First Magister, along with his wife, lovers, daughters, siblings, and supporters." Qyburn was well versed in the history of the Three Daughters.
"But chaos can also be an opportunity," he went on. "The Ninepenny Kings once ruled the Disputed Lands, the Stepstones, and Tyrosh. Nothing stays fixed forever. If Myr falls into turmoil, that may be our chance."
"Were you thinking of altering that Meereen corpse earlier?" Gendry asked.
Qyburn looked embarrassed, then nodded. "The dead are sometimes braver than the living."
"That's dangerous," Gendry said. "You'll have to do it quietly. Another time."