The gunpowder herb fields had reached maturity, but harvesting was only the first step. The plants needed to be dried, processed, and packed for transport, which meant the Wolf Pack Company would remain stationed at Firegrass Manor for at least three months. Three long months in the Disputed Lands—where a day of peace could be followed by a night of horror.
Gendry stood atop the manor's outer wall, a stretch of stone long enough to host a small parade. From this height he could see the rolling fields below, dark and quiet beneath the star-flecked sky. The night air smelled faintly of smoke from distant hearths and the herbal tang of drying gunpowder herb.
Tonight, Gendry stood watch alongside a rotation of mercenaries. Longspear and Morningstar—a pair of seasoned Wolf Pack instructors—were assigned to him as well. Their mastery of their respective weapons had given Gendry no small amount of frustration during training; against longer weapons, even the strongest close-range fighter struggled.
Longspear leaned against a battlement, peering into the dark. "Magister Karasso must be chewing through his fingernails by now," he muttered. "A disaster year for gunpowder herb. His past stock will bring a fortune, but all that remains is here—still drying, still vulnerable."
Morningstar snorted. "The election for Magister in Myr is a battlefield of coin. Karasso's in the gunpowder herb guild; he needs the profits if he wants a chance at the council."
Gendry listened quietly. The Free Cities were nothing like Westeros. In Myr, guilds elected rulers. Wealth equaled authority. Nobles were wealthy merchants; merchants played at nobility. Power belonged to anyone who could buy it.
A faint sound echoed through the night.
Gendry's head snapped upward. A distant thrum—no, several. Like dozens of fireflies flickering in the dark.
"Listen," Longspear whispered.
Moments later, the faint glimmers became clear: torches. Many torches. Too many.
"There's going to be blood tonight," Longspear said grimly. He reached for the alarm rope and struck the bell. The clang rang across the manor with a harsh metallic scream.
Gendry tightened his grip on his cold iron mace.
Within moments, the Handsome Man appeared atop the wall. His hair was tousled from sleep but his eyes were sharp as a veteran wolf. "Wake everyone!" he ordered. Horns sounded from all corners of Firegrass Manor. Men scrambled into armor, slaves rushed to the walls with buckets of oil and water, and the Wolf Pack sprang into formation.
In the torchlight outside the walls, a large group of people emerged—hundreds at least. Their shouting carried through the cool air.
"It's escaped slaves and bandit mercenaries," the Handsome Man growled. "A rotten alliance."
Escaped slaves—desperate and dangerous. Bandit mercenaries—ruthless and opportunistic. Together, they swarmed manors like locusts.
Gendry stared at the flickering mass below. They had come for loot, food, and gunpowder herb. And they would kill anything that stood in their way.
"Archers!" the Handsome Man commanded.
Thirty bowmen lined the walls. Half wielded Myrish crossbows; others drew Eastern horn bows or simple yew longbows. Manor slaves, trembling yet obedient, prepared oil barrels and stones.
Below, the attackers called out mockingly:
"Open the gates! Open them now!"
"Are you blind?" a Wolf Pack veteran shouted back. "This is the private manor of a Magister!"
"To hell with Magisters!" a voice roared. "This land belongs to us now!"
The Handsome Man stepped forward. "Who leads you?"
From the center of the mob, a tall man stepped forward. In the fire's glow, his armor shimmered purple. His hair—bright, dyed, flamboyant—stood out like a plume. On his shield was a symbol of a three-headed god. His eyes were pale, cunning, and cruel.
"I am Purple Beard of Crown Town!" he declared proudly. "Open your gates and I will spare you. Defy me, and every man inside will feed the crows!"
Gendry whispered to Morningstar, "What is Crown Town?"
Morningstar replied quietly, "The beating heart of the Disputed Lands. A nest for bandit knights, exile captains, mercenary lords. Long ago, nine outlaws met beneath the Crown Tree there. Pirates, exiles, cutthroats. They called themselves the Ninepenny Kings."
Gendry nodded. He'd heard tales of them. Brutal men with greater ambitions than morality.
"You should have accepted my generosity," Purple Beard jeered. "You might have plundered richer manors with us!"
He lifted a hand.
A spear whistled through the air, hurled from the shadows behind him. The Handsome Man jerked aside, narrowly avoiding being skewered. More spears followed, raining against the stone like hail.
"Down!" the Handsome Man bellowed.
Most mercenaries ducked in time. But one or two slaves—slow, untrained—were struck clean through. Gendry saw a spear rip through a man's throat. Blood sprayed. The body toppled silently.
"Charge!" Purple Beard shrieked. "Kill them all! The manor is ours!"
A roar erupted as his mob surged forward. Torches flew over the wall, trailing flame. Slaves scrambled to stamp them out.
"Ladders!" Purple Beard shouted. "Escaped slaves first—let them soak up the arrows!"
Crude wooden ladders slammed against the walls. But the trench dug by the Wolf Pack forced the attackers to climb awkwardly, slowing them down.
"Archers!" the Handsome Man shouted again.
Bowstrings thrummed—sharp, deadly, relentless. Arrows streaked downward. Bandits and escaped slaves fell screaming, clutching at throats, eyes, ribs, bellies. The first wave collapsed. Another took its place. And another.
Gendry's world narrowed to blood and steel.
A filthy man scrambled over the parapet, scrambling toward him with a dagger. Gendry swung his mace with both hands.
CRACK.
The man flew backward, tumbling off the wall. Another climbed up. Longspear intercepted him, thrusting with lightning speed. The spearhead pierced the man's chest.
At the gate, a few attackers hacked desperately with axes—but they lacked strength, skill, and determination. Arrows found them easily.
The air grew thick with the scent of blood, smoke, fire, and sweat. Someone beside Gendry fell—one of the manor slaves—his head shattered by a flanged mace. Gendry roared, smashing the attacker so hard he felt bones crunch beneath his hammer.
Below, Purple Beard's forces surged again, but without siege engines they faltered. Still, their numbers were vast.
The Handsome Man's voice rang across the chaos:
"Wolf Pack! Ten of you—full armor! Mount up!"
Gendry didn't hesitate. He followed the Handsome Man down from the wall, heart pounding with adrenaline. They raced to the stables, each grabbing a horse. Gendry's armor clattered as he mounted. His bull-horned helmet gleamed wickedly in the torchlight.
The Handsome Man's voice thundered: "We break their rear!"
The gates opened just long enough for the armored riders to burst forth like iron-clad demons.
Gendry howled as he charged. His mace felt alive in his hand—an extension of his rage. The horse beneath him surged forward powerfully.
A bandit turned at the last second.
THWACK.
The mace crushed him, and he collapsed like a broken doll.
Another man swung a rusted sword at Gendry's horse. Gendry leaned low, bringing the hammer down on the man's collarbone. Bone shattered. The bandit screamed.
Gendry fought like a man possessed.
The hammer crashed into helmets, split jaws, crushed arms. Purple Beard's rear line shattered under the charge. The bandits screamed, panicking as armored riders tore into them.
Gendry rode forward, unstoppable, a whirlwind of iron and fury. The Wolf Pack riders carved through the enemy like a hot blade through lard.
Behind him, torches dropped. Screaming erupted. Purple Beard's formation broke entirely.
And the counterattack had only just begun.