On the west bank of the Darkflow River, among the Novos Hills and the Black Forest, the rising sun cast a pale, dim light. The air was thick and humid, carrying the scent of soil and vegetation, pressing against their faces.
To the southeast of the Black Forest lay a low hill stretching for several miles. It provided concealment but also blocked the cool breeze.
Möngke led over six thousand Dothraki Roaring Warriors, hiding here for three full sunsets. The riders looked pale, but the horses remained in good condition. For the Dothraki, their warhorses were life itself. They would rather starve themselves than let the horses lose condition. Of course, if this continued, they would have no choice but to slaughter some horses to survive.
Suddenly, two dark figures appeared on the hill, racing toward their hiding spot.
The rapid sound of hooves announced their arrival, and from afar, Möngke recognized the figure at the front: Elder Ovor.
Stopping his horse, Ovor, pale and exhausted, dismounted shakily. Two Dothraki riders behind him quickly assisted him to Möngke.
Struggling, Ovor took a bronze dagger from his belt, raising it weakly. His voice trembled as he said:
"Khal, the mission succeeded. On the return, we spotted Khal Jumo Kao's tribe—they are heading toward the Darkflow River Long Bridge. They are expected to arrive by noon."
Möngke laughed heartily at the sight of the dagger, leapt onto his crimson warhorse, and galloped to the front of his army. Facing the eager gazes of the Dothraki warriors, he shouted:
"Dothraki warriors! The war you've been waiting for has arrived! The Great Stallion protects us, the Sky, the Mother Mountain, and the Womb Lake of the World all watch over us. The gods are on our side. They have bound defeat upon the heads of our enemies. Though their numbers exceed ours, they have confined their forces to narrow, unfavorable terrain, leaving the widest, flattest land for us. Here, we shall charge! While the enemy indulges in the comfort of their tents, we have been forged stronger through the forest's beasts and countless trials. You are the fiercest warriors of the Dothraki Sea, and you have me—Möngke Khal, blessed by the gods, unmatched and invincible!"
"Möngke Khal!"
"Möngke Khal!"
…
The chanting echoed endlessly. Möngke inhaled deeply, aware that the decisive battle for the future was about to begin.
With the sun at its peak, the pale light vanished. Not a breeze stirred. Time seemed to pause.
"The scouts of Khal Jumo Kao's tribe have passed—the third wave. They are preparing to cross the river," Elder Ovor reported, his tone filled with relief and excitement.
Möngke listened quietly, then asked:
"When will Kossoro arrive at the Darkflow River?"
Ovor ran his hand through his graying hair and considered for a moment.
"Approximately one more hour."
"I understand," Möngke nodded, feeling slightly more at ease.
War requires the right time, terrain, and people—missing even one demands a high price.
After Khal Jumo Kao's tribe reaches Qohor, Möngke sent Ovor and a scouting party back into the Qohor Forest to locate Kossoro leading his tribe toward the city. The dagger brought back by Ovor was the token.
Receiving the token, Kossoro would lead ten thousand Dothraki Roaring Warriors westward to join Möngke, encircling Khal Jumo Kao's tribe as they crossed.
The real question now: could Kossoro arrive at the battlefield at the right time?
Möngke remained calm. The pincer attack was meant to maximize victory. If he dared to lead six thousand cavalry into this, he was confident of success.
Turning to Elder Ovor, Möngke asked:
"Steward, have you ever seen Khal Jumo Kao and his Qaals?"
Though it is difficult to strike down a general in the midst of thousands, history shows: kill the horse first, capture the leader second. This principle applies to every nation—otherwise, only terrorizing the enemy achieves the strategic goal.
The Dothraki were too conspicuous near Qohor; Möngke and his scouts could not approach Khal Jumo Kao's tribe. Even now, he had no idea of their appearance.
Still, the Dothraki Sea was vast, and the Khals often traveled to the holy city, Vaes Dothrak.
Vaes Dothrak, also called "City of the Horse Lords," was the only city for all Dothraki, located at the foot of the Mother Mountain, beside the Womb Lake of the World. The city had no walls, could hold all the tribes at once, and every Dothraki within was bound by blood. No weapons, no bloodshed were allowed.
Perhaps Ovor, at his age, had truly seen Khal Jumo Kao there.
But the elder hesitated, struggling:
"I only remember that Khal Jumo Kao had four wives."
The lighthearted atmosphere of the Black Forest fell silent.
At that moment, a scout returned and reported:
"Khal, the enemy's fourth wave of scouts has crossed, and half the force is already on the other side."
Silence.
Möngke led over six thousand Dothraki Roaring Warriors, holding their horses silently forward. Finally, they could leave the Black Forest.
All the horses had muzzles and hoof wraps to prevent being detected before the attack. Before the charge, the wraps would be removed, since they reduce hoof sensitivity, risking slips in battle.
Outside the forest, the orange-yellow sun shone like a severed head, dazzling in its intensity. The heat reflected off everything with brilliant light.
Over the hills, Möngke mounted his horse. The hot wind lashed his bare chest. He suppressed his excitement and tension, then issued the decisive order:
"Dothraki cavalry, attack!"
"Hoaa, whoa!"
Over six thousand Roaring Warriors charged, their war cries echoing like a river breaking its banks. The sound of hooves thundered across both shores.
The horses broke into a trot, the rhythm synchronized, then accelerated into an unstoppable force.
Dust swirled. Möngke felt the wind rush past, his blood stirring with a cool thrill rather than fear.
These six thousand were not ordinary Dothraki cavalry; most were Möngke's own kash, with the rest being elite warriors from the tribes, all skilled with bows, spears, and arakhs.
The enemy on the west bank, nearly ten thousand strong but unprepared, could not form ranks, dazed and scattered like aimless civilians.
At five hundred paces, the Dothraki warriors drew near. Khal Jumo Kao's warriors sporadically rode out, only to be pierced by arrows, forming a porcupine-like defense.
Two hundred paces: volleys of arrows rained down. Thousands of missiles struck the dense, unarmored Dothraki.
One hundred paces: two rounds of mounted archery left Khal Jumo Kao's tribe in chaos, terrified, confused, unable to react.
Even with thirty percent casualties, the elite could falter. The Dothraki's raw ferocity drove them onward despite the shock.
In the last hundred paces, the six thousand Roaring Warriors tightened their horses and charged with spears.
Shlah!
Möngke's spear pierced a rider's chest, unseating him. In an instant, he drew his arakh, slicing past a snarling enemy, leaving only the dying man's final sound behind.
A curved blade swung toward his face. Möngke's rage surged; he blocked it with his arm, gripping the enemy's terrified face with his fingers, blood seeping through, tossing both horse and rider to the ground.
Breaking through the enemy lines, the Roaring Warriors pressed forward, only to find the west bank completely disintegrated. Survivors fled, horses screaming as they plunged into the river's whirlpools with their riders.
On the east bank, the enemy froze in panic, clashing with their own disordered tribes behind them.
Rumble…
The ground trembled as a black line surged from the eastern horizon. Dust swirled like a tornado, covering the sun. Across the plains, the Dothraki cavalry rolled like a dark, overwhelming tide, ready to sweep away all on the east bank.
Blood mixed with mud. Horses dragged fallen riders, screaming. The river churned crimson.
Khal Jumo Kao's warriors cut off their braids and dropped to the ground, prostrate in defeat.