The battlefield before Myr became a clash of colors: the black of the Dothraki screamer warriors, the white of Myr, the gray-white of the Wolf Pack banners, the red of blood, and armor that flashed black or silver.
And over it all, a constant shifting roar, Gendry thought—the sum of every sound a battle could make. Men shouting. Horses screaming. Steel striking steel. From the walls, Gendry and the Red Viper heard it all: killing at arm's length. Curses and insults, war cries and screams, prayers thrown into the air.
Wooooo—
Low and drawn-out, the warhorn sounded. Gendry's men were not like the Unsullied, fearless in the face of death. They needed the horn and the shouting to raise their spirit and hold their nerve.
Gendry held his breath and watched the fight below. Greywolf's shield wall was slowly tightening, drawing in on itself.
Under the Unsullied's direction, the soldiers kept their formation, Longspears standing like a forest. The Dothraki's repeated charges were beginning to tell, but the line held. It had not dissolved into chaos.
I have to seize the moment. I'll only get one chance, Gendry told himself. His men were not the Unsullied. Only those pain-proof soldiers could endure eighteen rounds of Dothraki attacks.
Most of his soldiers did not have that kind of body or that kind of training. He had to strike before the line buckled—decide the battle with a cavalry countercharge.
"There are only a handful of Unsullied. The rest are stone-dwellers, armor-wearers—no match for me," Khal Zekko shouted as he swept past the shield wall, cutting toward the Free Company infantry behind it. These escaped slaves didn't look like a hard core at all.
"A few more charges! Kill them all!" Khal Zekko feared the Unsullied shield wall, but not this lesser imitation.
"The Dothraki really are born riders," the Red Viper said from atop the high wall, admiration in his voice. In Westeros, most powers relied on infantry and could not afford to field cavalry the way the Dothraki did—almost nothing but horse.
"Kill!" the Dothraki roared as they came on. Light cavalry was their main strength, warriors wielding arakhs, longbows, and whips. Even slowed by the muddy, oil-soaked ground, they still surged forward like a gale.
Behind Myr's gate, the catapults worked at full speed. Great boulders crashed down like thunderbolts, and each strike stole Dothraki lives. Above, the longbowmen on the walls added their own "blessing," sending arrows in steady volleys.
Death was harvesting everyone—Dothraki and Gendry's soldiers alike. Even in armor, men still fell.
The screamer warriors had already charged back and forth several times. The Longspears bristling from the shield wall forced most horses to shy away, weaving and dodging just beyond the spearpoints. But a few mounts could not be controlled, crashing in wild-eyed.
A horse would be skewered through the body and collapse with a scream, and its rider often died before he ever hit the ground.
Even so, the sheer weight of a fallen horse could slam into the shield wall and throw it into a moment's disorder. Some soldiers were hurt beneath that crushing mass. The men behind stepped up at once, filling the gaps again and again, unbroken.
"Hold!"
"Hold!" Steel Fist bellowed.
The Wolf Pack infantry were the sharpest edge of the line, braced at the front like an iron mountain. What worried him were the Free Company soldiers behind them. The battlefield would not show mercy just because they had once been slaves.
The Dothraki whooped and fanned out, loosing arrows into the formation. A few Free Company men went down and did not rise again.
Greywolf still lived. Steel Fist still lived. Some of the men they knew—Free Company soldiers and Wolf Pack soldiers alike—had already died, but Greywolf kept the line steady.
"From here on, it's up to you," Greywolf said, glancing back toward the walls. He licked lips so dry they had split and bled.
Seven full rounds of attack. For the Unsullied, it might not be worth boasting about. But for a force swollen with freed slaves, it was already something close to honor.
"Boom. Boom. Boom."
"Boom-boom-boom."
A heavy drumbeat rolled out, dull and relentless, like the judgment of fate.
Khal Zekko stared at the shield wall still holding before Myr. Seven rounds was no small number. If he kept bleeding men like this and still could not break through, then he would end here—his wings shattered beneath the walls of Myr.
"This battle must end!" Khal Zekko roared, slashing the air with his arakh as impatience gnawed at him. These stone-dwelling men had proven far more troublesome than expected. He cursed himself for listening to the Tyroshi—Myr was supposed to be nothing more than a soft, easy cake.
The time has come, Gendry thought. The Dothraki's momentum was beginning to fade, but more importantly, his shield wall could not endure much longer. It was time to strike and give the Dothraki something to answer.
He turned to Brown Ben and Fletcher.
"Fire the flaming arrows. Break their rhythm."
"The Second Sons will serve as the rear guard. Strike at the Dothraki's back!"
Gendry and Longspear descended from the walls with the Red Viper and Brown Ben. What followed would decide everything.
"The Warrior will grant us strength," the Red Viper said.
"I call on the Warrior and the Smith as well."
"Draw!"
"Loose!"
Fletcher personally directed the longbowmen. Their arrows no longer sought flesh but the ground before the Unsullied shield wall. That earth had been soaked in oil earlier. Whether it would still ignite was uncertain, but they had to try.
Flames suddenly flared up before the line led by Greywolf, though only in scattered patches. It was no wildfire.
The ground had been drenched in oil, but horses had churned it over again and again. When the flaming arrows struck, the fire took poorly. Smoke rose, and a few warhorses shied at the heat.
The Dothraki stared in confusion. Was this all the Myrmen had?
"Kill!"
Hooves thundered as Myr's cavalry burst from another gate, fresh and waiting for this moment, charging toward the Dothraki in a fight to the death.
Gendry and Longspear led the knights out, smashing straight into the Dothraki ranks. The Red Viper rode behind them.
Six hundred Wolf Pack cavalry, eight hundred Long Lances, and the Free Company knights—more than two thousand riders in all. These were Gendry's finest troops. The hundred Dornish light horsemen brought by the Red Viper rode with them, reserved for their own purpose.
One Dothraki warrior, overconfident, charged straight at Gendry. Gendry's warhammer crashed into his chest, smashing through painted leather, muscle, and lung. The man died where he sat.
Gendry did not slow. He swung and struck, roaring as he rode, a relentless butcher in motion. Six hundred heavily armored riders hit the Dothraki like a hammer blow.
"Kill! Kill Khal Zekko!" Gendry shouted.
He rode the finest Dornish steed, bore the finest weapon. He was the arrow's head, the knife's edge.
Steel and fire collided between the two forces until Gendry finally saw Khal Zekko. The khal was past forty. In raw strength, he could not match Khal Drogo, but every khal was seasoned in war and dangerous for it.
Khal Zekko saw him as well—the man in black scale plate, wielding a warhammer, surrounded by knights. The king of these stone houses.
Zekko rode a magnificent Dothraki stallion, the bells woven into his braid ringing in the wind as he moved.
"Face me!" Khal Zekko bellowed, voice harsh and strange. His arakh flashed like a crescent moon as it slashed toward Gendry.
The blade came swift and vicious, as fluid as a hunting cat, cutting through the air with deadly precision. But Gendry did not retreat. Today, he fought as if the Warrior himself had taken flesh.