The firegrass had to be dried after harvesting, which meant the Wolf Pack Company would be guarding the manor for at least three months. On the long walls of Firegrass Manor, Gendry stared out at the dark landscape, the night sky a canopy of glittering stars. He was on watch with a handful of other sellswords, including Longspear and Morningstar, two veterans whose skill with their chosen weapons had given him no small amount of trouble in the training yard.
"Magister Karasso must be sweating through his silks," Longspear grumbled, leaning on the stone battlement. "A blight on the firegrass fields this year means his own harvest will fetch a king's ransom. Pity this manor is so far out in the wilds." The high price of the crop was the very reason they were here.
"He needs the coin for the election," Morningstar replied. "Running for Magister in Myr is a game played with mountains of gold. As a man from the firegrass guild, Karasso has to play." In the Free Cities, Gendry was learning, merchants and their guilds held more power than most nobles in Westeros.
"Listen," one of the men hissed. In the distance, a low rumble grew louder, and a constellation of bobbing lights appeared in the darkness. They were torches, hundreds of them, carried by a great host of people.
"Looks like we have a battle," Longspear said, a grim smile on his face. "Are you ready, boy?" He turned to strike the alarm bell, and its urgent clang echoed across the manor. Gendry didn't answer. He simply gripped the cold steel of his warhammer.
Moments later, Handsome was on the wall beside them, his eyes narrowed as he assessed the approaching horde. "Escaped slaves and bandit mercenaries," he spat. The Disputed Lands were full of them, desperate men who preyed on isolated manors like this one. They had come for their share of the Magister's wealth.
"Archers to the walls!" Handsome commanded. Thirty men took their positions, half with crossbows, the others with the composite horn bows of the east. Only a few, like Gendry, carried the yew longbows of Westeros. The manor's own slaves were also pressed into service, preparing barrels of sand and hot oil.
The attackers stopped just out of bow range, their voices carrying on the night air. "People of the manor, hear me! Open your gates!"
"Are you blind?" Handsome shouted back. "This is a private manor of a Magister of Myr!"
"To the seven hells with your magisters!" a voice boomed from the torchlight. "This manor now belongs to us!" A man with a bright purple beard emerged from the crowd, his ornate steel armor shimmering. He carried a shield bearing the emblem of a three-headed god. "I am Purple Beard of Crown Town," he declared, his pale eyes full of cunning. "Open your gates, and perhaps we will leave you some scraps. Refuse, and no one will be spared."
"Crown Town?" Gendry whispered.
"The heart of the Disputed Lands," Longspear muttered beside him. "The stronghold of the bandit-knights. It's where the Ninepenny Kings first met to forge their alliance."
"I think not," Handsome yelled back to Purple Beard. "We are mercenaries, not bandits. We honor our contracts."
"A pity," Purple Beard sneered. "You could have joined us." He waved a hand, and a volley of throwing spears flew from the darkness. Handsome and the other veterans dove for cover, but two of the manor slaves were not quick enough. The spearpoints punched through their throats with a wet, tearing sound.
"Charge!" Purple Beard roared. "Kill them all! The manor is ours!" The horde surged forward with a cacophony of clashing steel. Torches were thrown over the walls, attempting to set the buildings ablaze, but the steward had been prepared. Slaves rushed to extinguish the flames with buckets of sand.
"Ladders! Send the slaves up first!" Purple Beard commanded. The stone walls were rough and easy to climb, but the deep trench the Wolf Pack had dug now proved its worth, slowing the assault.
The Wolf Pack's archers let loose a volley of arrows, and the night was filled with the screams of the dying. But the attackers were a seemingly endless tide. They swarmed the walls, and for every man Gendry smashed from a ladder with his hammer, another took his place. A nimble slave scrambled over the top, but Longspear's weapon shot out like a striking serpent, impaling him. Gendry smelled fire, iron, blood, and the dust of chaos. He saw a slave next to him go down, his face a pulp of gore from a thrown mace.
"This is not working," Handsome snarled. He looked out at the disorganized mob. They had no siege engines, no discipline. "Ten men, with me! To the stables! We ride!"
"I'm with you!" Gendry shouted, following his commander down from the wall.
Moments later, the manor gates burst open, and ten steel-clad riders charged into the fray. Gendry was among them, his newly polished bull-horned helmet gleaming in the torchlight, a fearsome visage of a vengeful god. His warhammer felt like an extension of his own arm. He rode into the panicked mass of men, his hammer rising and falling, striking with brutal precision at the weak points in their armor, at their throats and their heads. The night was filled with the sound of shattering bone and the screams of the dying.
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