WHIZZ! WHIZZ! WHIZZ!
The Tyroshi's direct fleet had likewise adopted a multi-layered wild goose formation, a common and versatile naval formation that balanced offense and defense while maximizing the fleet's overall firepower. However, their configuration differed slightly from that of the combined fleet.
First, their number of warships was considerably fewer, comprising only two layers of the wild goose formation.
The foremost dozen or so ships were all large war galleys, while the rear line consisted of over twenty medium and small-sized vessels.
Second, rather than the typical V-shaped arrangement, their formation was stretched out in a long, straight line.
Perched high above, Jacaerys made a rough estimation of the range covered by the heavy ballistae stationed at the Port of Tyrosh. Then, he urged Vermax into a steep dive toward the fleet's front line.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
These massive warships were also equipped with powerful ballistae, but they could not be clustered too closely together.
Adequate spacing had been left between each ship to prevent collision and preserve maneuverability. As a result, the density of incoming bolts could not compare to the overwhelming barrage from the southern city wall.
*ROOOAAAR!!!*
A torrent of searing orange flame burst from Vermax's jaws, instantly engulfing the sails of the two outermost large warships in fire.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
A continuous storm of arrows shot up from below, striking the dragon's scaled chest with sharp, metallic thuds.
Under normal circumstances, Jacaerys would have paid them little mind. But during an earlier assault, Vermax had taken a direct hit from a ballista bolt, and the scales on his chest had been shattered.
Concerned that a stray arrow might now pierce through the fractured plating and bury itself in the dragon's flesh, Jacaerys was forced to maneuver with greater caution. He angled Vermax so that the dragon's armored underbelly would absorb the brunt of the arrow fire.
This tactic, however, came at a cost. Vermax's ability to breathe flame was restricted, and the frequency of his fire assaults naturally diminished.
By the end of that initial dive, only four of the large ships had their sails set ablaze and were left adrift. The remaining warships surged toward the port with all the speed they could muster, determined to regroup.
Vermax banked sharply in the sky, wheeling around for another attack. Seated atop the dragon saddle, Jacaerys studied the advancing rear line of Tyroshi warships.
His mind raced. He needed to avoid exposing Vermax's damaged chest to enemy fire, yet the threat had to be eliminated swiftly.
Any hesitation could cost him the crucial moment to synchronize with the army's full-scale assault on the city.
His eyes narrowed. Every ship in that rear line was of medium or smaller size, and they were all arranged in a straight formation. A bold and brutal tactic suddenly flashed through his memory—a maneuver he had once used in battle.
Yes, this might work.
With a thunderous flap of wings, Vermax folded his vast wings tight against his sides. Losing lift, his colossal body dropped like a meteor, plummeting in a near-vertical dive.
Moments before crashing into the sea, his wings snapped open once more. With a single powerful stroke, he adjusted his angle and hurtled forward, now flying at an even lower altitude.
Skimming just above the ocean's surface, Vermax shot ahead like a flaming spear aimed directly at the outermost ship of the rear formation.
SPLASH! SPLASH!
The Tyroshi soldiers aboard the first ship seemed to grasp what was coming. In blind panic, they hurled themselves into the water, flailing and shouting in terror. Their fear had spared their lives.
ROOOOAR!!!
BOOM!
Blistering dragonfire scorched the vessel's flank, melting through its hull like butter beneath a forge. Vermax, driven by unstoppable momentum, crashed into the already-burning ship with devastating force.
CRUNCH!!
The vessel exploded apart as though struck by the hammer of a god, shattered into splinters under the titanic impact. And this was only the beginning.
From above, it looked as if Vermax had become a blazing battering ram, a molten spear tearing through a wall of wooden shields.
Ship after ship crumbled in his wake. His flame incinerated soldiers into charred husks; his massive frame tore through decks and cabins, turning wood and men alike into ruin and pulp.
CRACK! SNAP!
When Vermax finally crashed into the last ship in the line, a wooden shard splintered from the hull on impact and shot into the air like a missile, striking Jacaerys across the face.
Yet the shard, unable to penetrate the magical protection granted by his "Iron-Walled Strategist" status, simply bounced off.
But then, something uncanny occurred.
A Tyroshi soldier who had been stationed below deck had, by sheer dumb luck, survived the onslaught by narrowly avoiding the dragon's crushing mass.
As he looked up, dazed and shell-shocked, his eyes met Jacaerys's for the briefest moment.
And in that fated instant, the very wooden shard that had harmlessly ricocheted off Jacaerys's face flew onward and embedded itself directly into the soldier's eye socket.
Perhaps, if he had known that he would die in such a ridiculous and humiliating way—killed not by dragonfire, not by sword or steel, but by a flying splinter deflected from another man's face—the soldier might have chosen to die in the more honorable way: crushed beneath the dragon.
This strange twist was nothing more than a fleeting moment, a grimly humorous footnote in a scene of overwhelming carnage.
The truth could not be denied. The rear line of the Tyroshi fleet had been obliterated, reduced to a scattering of broken hulls and drifting wreckage that now blanketed the sea like flotsam after a storm.
Gulp!
On the southern wall of the city, a group of sellswords, hardened veterans of many battles, stood frozen with wide eyes, stunned by the devastation they had just witnessed.
One by one, they swallowed hard, their expressions slowly shifting from grim determination to creeping fear.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Sensing that some of the sellswords might be on the verge of abandoning their posts, the slave soldiers stationed behind them, who were acting under the direct orders of a certain governor, immediately unsheathed their longswords.
In that instant, the southern ramparts of the city fell into a strange and tense stalemate, as though both sides were waiting for the other to make the first move.
At the same time, atop the northern ramparts, a new figure emerged. A soldier clad in armor, his face hidden behind a spiked helm, stepped into view. He held a round shield in one hand and a sword in the other.
This was an Unsullied, one who had cast aside the traditional spear and chosen the sword instead.
The moment he reached the top of the battlements, he surged forward, charging directly into the line of slave soldiers guarding that stretch of the wall.
Compared to the well-rested Unsullied, the slave-soldiers were worn down by exhaustion and poorly trained at best.
The Unsullied tore through them like a dagger slicing through cloth, carving a swift breach in the enemy formation.
In a matter of moments, he cut down more than ten foes. Though his armor and flesh were pierced by over twenty wounds, he did not falter. Only when a fresh defender drove a blade into his heart did he finally collapse.
Even in his final moments, as death overtook him, he uttered not a single scream or cry. His silence was as resolute as his blade.
Yet his sacrifice was not in vain.
His fearless charge opened the path for more Unsullied to reach the breach and climb onto the walls.
Though they were outnumbered, these soldiers, trained to ignore pain and unafraid of death, inflicted greater losses than they suffered.
For every Unsullied who fell, several enemy soldiers were dragged down alongside them.
As the battle dragged on, the Unsullied who had gained a foothold on the wall gradually formed ranks and established a proper formation.
Their discipline and coordination became increasingly apparent. The slave soldiers defending the northern ramparts could no longer hold their ground. One by one, they were pushed back under the pressure of the relentless advance.
"Unsullied, destroy the scorpions first!" came a loud and clear command.
Fully armed, Rudy had finally reached the top of the wall. As soon as his feet touched stone, he raised his voice and gave the order.
In response, a wave of Unsullied surged forward, their swords aimed at the massive ballistae lining the wall.
Their strikes were swift and efficient. The once-formidable siege weapons were reduced to splinters and twisted iron.
As more than half of the northern battlement's heavy ballistae lay shattered, a vast shadow fell over the Unsullied fighting below. The source of the darkness descended with terrifying force.
With a thunderous crash, Vermax landed heavily upon the stone ramparts, his immense weight rocking the very foundation of the wall.
He stood tall above the Unsullied formation, spreading his legs for balance. Then, lowering his massive head, he opened his jaws wide and unleashed a torrent of searing flame upon the slave soldiers ahead.
A chorus of anguished screams tore through the air.
Faced with such overwhelming might, the slave army's formation disintegrated. What had moments ago been a defensive line now dissolved into pure chaos. The psychological blow was absolute.
If the Unsullied breaching the wall had marked the fall of the northern defense, then Vermax's arrival after the destruction of the ballistae signaled something far greater. It signaled the complete fall of Tyrosh.
Jacaerys' plan to breach the city had always been simple.
First, leap from the mountaintop like a living bomb, using the human bodies itself to ignite the fire in the heart of Tyrosh.
If he had managed to end the battle then and there with black-gray dragonflame, all the better. Even if he had not, the resulting chaos inside the city would have been enough to give his forces an advantage.
Then would come the full assault. Ground forces and aerial firepower working in tandem. Jacaerys knew that by drawing the defenders' attention from above, he could open the way for the Unsullied to scale the walls more easily.
Still, he would never risk either himself or Vermax unless it was absolutely necessary.
The Unsullied, after all, had been bought for the very purpose of waging war.
Even if every last one of them perished in this battle, the wealth contained within Tyrosh would be more than enough to purchase replacements. Perhaps even more than before.
With the slave soldiers on the wall either dead or in flight, Vermax beat his wings and took off again.
He swooped down toward the inner gatehouse. Lowering his head, he exhaled a blast of blazing orange flame directly onto the massive wooden bar that reinforced the gate from within.
In just a few heartbeats, the intense heat had burned through it entirely.
Then came the final push.
With a great roar and a deafening crash, the gate burst open.
"Charge!" someone cried.
Like a flood released from a broken dam, the soldiers of Bloodstone Island surged forward through the shattered gate, accompanied by the howling masses of expendable auxiliaries.
In that moment of triumph, even the cannon fodder found courage in their hearts. The tide of battle had turned irreversibly.
After a long day of brutal bloodshed, Jacaerys' army had finally torn down the gates of Tyrosh. And now, as the victors, they could at last begin to savor the spoils of conquest.
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[IMAGE]
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[Chapter End's]
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