"That just means we'll see how long these pirate scum can last in our hands! Hahaha!"
Sharako Lohar roared with laughter and immediately ordered his men to abandon ship and storm the island base.
Ser Maron Gargalen frowned but followed suit.
After all, with nearly two thousand men and dozens of warships, how could they possibly fail to take one small pirate stronghold?
The combined Triarchy and Dornish forces poured off their ships onto the pebble beach and advanced toward Logar's camp like a dark tide.
Soldiers armed with swords, shields, and spears formed long columns that stretched endlessly across the shore. Their heavy footsteps and war cries merged into a deafening roar, like floodwaters bursting through a dam.
Inside the fortifications, Logar and his men held their breath. With battle upon them, all distracting thoughts vanished. One idea alone remained: survive the coming onslaught!
Every preparation had been made. Now there was only the fight.
When the enemy drew within a hundred paces, their chaotic war cries crashed over the camp like a breaking wave.
"Loose!" Logar commanded.
The archers hidden behind the palisade released their arrows in unison. They had prepared well — quivers bulging at their hips. The draw and release were smooth and practiced.
Arrows shrieked through the air, falling on the enemy like a black cloud.
The allied troops had expected this. Front-rank soldiers quickly raised their shields, forming a tight tortoise formation as they advanced. Still, many unlucky souls were struck through gaps in the shields or hit in exposed limbs, screaming as they collapsed.
Standing atop the wall, Logar watched it all clearly. The first volley had done solid work — dozens of men dropped like harvested wheat before they could even raise their shields.
With his sharp Valyrian eyesight, he even caught the face of one fallen Dornish soldier.
The man was in his thirties or forties, with sparse stubble. After being hit, his eyes widened in shock, then twisted with unwilling terror before he crashed to the ground, quickly trampled under the boots of his advancing comrades.
Logar stared at that dying look for a split second, then hardened his heart. On the battlefield there was no mercy — kill or be killed.
Cold light flashed in his violet eyes as he turned to the trebuchet crews nearby. "Load! Fire!"
Though primitive, these trebuchets used counterweight levers and required three to six men to crank the winch. Each stone they hurled weighed no more than three hundred pounds.
Still, from the defensive high ground, the heavy pieces Logar had wrung from the Velaryons proved their worth. Stones flew alongside arrows, slowing the enemy advance.
Combined with the pre-dug ditches and reinforced palisades, the layered defenses worked together, forcing the allied troops to crawl forward at a snail's pace.
"These damn pirate bastards are tougher than they look!" Sharako Lohar cursed through gritted teeth. He waved to Chaman. "Bring up our engines! Let's give them a taste of real steel!"
Soon the Triarchy's heavy trebuchets and ballistae were rolled forward from the ships and began pounding Logar's camp.
Stones smashed into the thick wooden walls, sending splinters flying. Heavy bolts thudded into the palisades. Both sides traded volleys in a fierce exchange.
Under cover of their siege engines, the allied soldiers regained courage and charged the base from all directions.
Logar gritted his teeth at the sight. He turned to Femon. "Keep the archers suppressing them!"
Then he drew his longsword, grabbed a spear, and led a pre-positioned team of spearmen out to meet the charge.
After days of intense drilling, the former pirates were still rough around the edges, but they could now form a decent tight spear wall.
Though the ferocity of the enemy attack made some of them nervous, with Logar leading from the front they swallowed their fear and found their courage again.
"Brothers, with me! Hold them back!" Logar roared, sword in one hand, spear leveled in the other.
"Kill!" His men answered with a deafening battle cry, turning their terror into desperate fury.
One thought burned in every mind: defeat the enemy and live.
The enemy soldiers pressed forward relentlessly, only to be met head-on by Logar's spear wall.
Using the camp's defenses to their advantage, the spearmen thrust their weapons through gaps in the palisade with deadly precision, each strike carrying lethal force into the enemy's vital points.
The allied troops were caught off guard. Their formation faltered. A few wounded men who hadn't died immediately struggled on the ground, only to be finished off by spears stabbing down from above.
Behind the allied lines, Ser Maron Gargalen sat atop a Dornish warhorse brought ashore, personally overseeing the assault.
Any soldier who tried to turn and flee was immediately cut down by his personal guards and left as an example.
Yet as time passed, the battle did not unfold as the swift victory he had expected. Instead it was turning into a bloody stalemate. The defenders were dragging the attackers into a brutal war of attrition.
"If we keep grinding like this, it will cost us," Maron muttered. Seeing Logar's spearmen holding back the infantry push, he rode over to Sharako Lohar.
"The enemy is stubborn. A prolonged assault will only drain our morale. We should surround the camp, cut off all their supplies, wear them down, then strike. It will also protect us from any Velaryon fleet trying to hit us from the sea."
Sharako Lohar refused to listen. He glared, beard bristling with rage. "Surround them? Waste time on these few pirates? I've already posted scout ships at sea. Right now I just want to flatten this pathetic island! Keep attacking!"
Maron Gargalen frowned deeply. He hated the Throat-Cutter with every fiber of his being, but the man's combat ability and tenacity had far exceeded his expectations.
While the desperate battle raged on the island, the Velaryon fleet stationed on a nearby island also received urgent word that the Triarchy and Dornish forces had launched a full assault on Blackgold Island.
"Uncle, shouldn't we send help immediately?" Daemon asked, turning to Malentin. Logar had left a strong impression on him. The thought of a capable man his own age possibly dying on that barren rock filled him with regret.
"What's the rush, nephew?" Malentin swirled his cup of absinthe, savoring the bitter burn. Ever since part of his tongue had been cut out, he had grown especially fond of this sharply flavored drink.
"Let that sellsword captain Logar bleed the enemy a little longer. He's spent days turning that base into a fortress — it won't fall easily."
A mocking smile curved his lips. "Let them wear each other down first. Then we'll swoop in and clean up the mess. Isn't that exactly what they're here for?"
Seeing the smug look in his uncle's eyes, Daemon could only sigh helplessly, even though he felt uneasy.
His gaze drifted toward Blackgold Island in the distance. He silently hoped that Logar and his company could hold out until they arrived.
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