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To the west and south, Tyrosh bordered the Narrow Sea, its coastlines embraced by salt-laden winds and the endless cries of gulls. To the east stretched a vast, flat plain, fertile and far-reaching beneath an open sky.
But it was the north that truly served as the city's natural bulwark. A sweeping range of rugged mountains rose there, their jagged peaks cutting into the heavens like the blades of a giant's crown. It was a natural fortress, impervious and foreboding.
CLOP, CLOP, CLOP...
Atop the northern wall of Tyrosh, which stood some fourteen to fifteen meters high, slave soldiers clad in battered leather armor moved with tense urgency.
They hauled boulders the size of human heads, stacking them tightly beneath the battlements. Quivers stuffed with arrows were tied securely to their waists, the weapons rattling faintly with each step.
In stark contrast to their focused diligence, the mercenary companies and freelance sellswords stationed along the wall appeared disorganized and sluggish.
Among them, only those employed under proper mercenary banners—companies with their own commanders and captains—displayed even a semblance of discipline. Their order was far from perfect, but at least preparations continued steadily.
The independent sellswords, however, ignored the commands barked by Tyrosh's officers. At the southernmost edge of the wall, chaos reigned.
Arguments erupted, crates were overturned, and weapons clattered to the ground. The entire section resembled a bustling marketplace more than a military fortification.
At first glance, these men appeared to be the worst kind of rabble, undisciplined and cowardly, seemingly destined to serve as nothing more than cannon fodder.
Yet beneath the surface, they were seasoned scoundrels who had long prowled the nine Free Cities. They were veterans of countless bloody campaigns.
They had staked their claim on the southern wall for one strategic reason. It stood closest to the Tyroshian fleet docked at the port. Should the battle turn grim, the fleet would be the first to respond with reinforcements.
Their apparent ease was not born of laziness but of confidence. Tyrosh's walls were far taller than those of most Free Cities, rising at least five or six meters above the standard fortifications seen elsewhere.
What truly bolstered their morale, however, were the siege artillery mounted atop the walls. An astonishing number of massive ballistae loomed over the battlements.
Many among the mercenaries had never witnessed so many of these deadly machines gathered in one place.
Despite the ominous rumors circulating within the city—whispers of demons and dragons—the defenders remained firm in their belief: as long as the enemy was made of flesh and blood, no living thing could withstand the volleys from so many great ballistae.
Surrounded by his personal guard, Archon Pachek ascended the wall, accompanied by the nine magisters of Tyrosh.
His expression was grave. His usual attire, once resplendent in color and ornament, had been replaced with worn leather armor nearly indistinguishable from that worn by the slave soldiers.
It had been Pachek himself who insisted upon this change. The fear of the enemy's dragon lingered deep within his heart.
He feared even the ballistae might not be enough to stop the beast from soaring through the storm of bolts and unleashing fire upon the city.
As he cast his gaze across the battlements, Pachek immediately noticed the stark contrast in readiness along the defensive line.
Disturbed by what he saw, he turned to one of the magisters and asked in a low, uneasy voice, "Can we truly rely on these mercenary companies and free swords?"
"Lord Archon, please rest assured," the magister responsible for hiring the mercenaries answered promptly, his voice filled with unwavering confidence. "Though the Ranger Company may lack the renown of the Second Sons or the Bright Banners, their strength is in no way inferior. More importantly, they have never betrayed an employer nor turned their blades on those who paid them. Their commander, Saba, is especially gifted. He possesses a sharp strategic mind and excels in battlefield command."
"And the free swords?" Pachek pressed, his concerns not yet satisfied.
"I've made arrangements," the magister said, his voice sharpening. "They have taken our coin. That means they must earn it. One way or another."
"Very well." Pachek gave a slow nod, though unease still lingered in his eyes. His gaze drifted to the horizon, where a sea of shadowy figures stretched out beyond the city walls.
Under his breath, he murmured, "They've been camped outside for a full day. Aside from raiding the slave districts a few times, they've made no move. No attack. No dragon in sight. What are they waiting for?"
A magister standing beside him scoffed. "Perhaps they have seen our high walls, our mighty artillery, our vast host. Perhaps fear has frozen them where they stand. Perhaps their legs have turned to water."
A round of tense laughter followed.
Wooooooooooo...
Suddenly, the sound of war horns echoed across the plains, slicing through the morning haze like the cry of a dire beast.
The magisters who had laughed just moments before fell silent, their faces stiff with disbelief.
For so long, the enemy army had remained motionless, nothing more than an unmoving mass across the landscape. But now, with the blare of that horn, the scene shifted with terrifying immediacy. What once appeared static turned into a tide in motion.
A surge of black-haired, dark-armored figures began to advance, the waves of human heads rising and falling like great fish breaking the surface of a storm-tossed sea.
In the blink of an eye, the slave town outside the city was engulfed. The streets leading to the wall teemed with people, a press of warriors pushing ever forward. It was overwhelming.
Even at a glance, the enemy's numbers exceeded ten or twenty thousand. In this era, to field such a vast host was no small feat. Battles of this magnitude had become exceedingly rare.
Tyrosh's defenders were dwarfed by comparison. The slave army numbered one thousand three hundred. The Ranger Company counted five hundred and fifty. The free swords fell just under seven hundred. Inside the gate, another two hundred slave soldiers stood in reserve.
Even with the Tyroshian fleet stationed near the southwest harbor—around two thousand two hundred strong—the full defensive force amounted to no more than four thousand nine hundred and fifty.
Some of the magisters, those who had never witnessed the horrors of war, were already turning pale. A few visibly trembled, quietly cursing their earlier decision not to recall the main fleet of the combined navy, their most elite force, in time to reinforce the city.
SCHING!
Near the center of the wall, not far from where the magisters stood, the commander of the Ranger Company, Saba, drew his sword in a single fluid motion. His face remained composed, eyes sharp and unblinking as he raised his blade and called out with clear authority, "Draw your bows! Prepare to fire!"
His voice rang out like iron striking stone.
The signal bearer beside him sprang into motion, swiftly relaying the command to the surrounding archers.
SHFF!
The previously relaxed and scattered mercenaries of the Ranger Company responded with stunning precision. In a single, unified motion, they reached for their quivers and drew their bows.
Their entire demeanor shifted. Gone was the careless ease, replaced now by the cold focus of battle-hardened professionals.
A closer look revealed the truth of their identity: these were professional mercenaries, veterans of countless battles across the continent of Essos.
The slave soldiers stationed on the northern wall imitated their actions, drawing bows as well. However, compared to the practiced cohesion of the Ranger Company, their movements appeared stiff and clumsy, their lines lacking true discipline.
At the southern wall, the free sellswords managed a semblance of readiness, but their efforts were uneven, more symbolic than effective.
"Fire!"
WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
Nearly a thousand arrows took to the sky, their flight casting brief shadows across the battlements before they came crashing down like a storm of steel upon the packed ranks of Jacaerys's army in the slave town below.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
The front ranks of the enemy, having just entered bow range, were immediately struck down. Like wheat under a reaper's scythe, they collapsed in waves—rows upon rows of bodies falling to the ground, pierced by steel.
The sudden assault brought the advancing army to a halt. Their momentum was broken, their formation disrupted. After a stunned moment, they reacted instinctively, raising whatever they had above their heads as makeshift shields.
"What are they holding?" one magister asked with narrowed eyes.
"Doors… bed boards… ha! Someone's even carrying a wooden window!" another answered, barely stifling his laughter.
"Hah! What kind of army is this?" a third scoffed.
Just moments before, the magisters had stood pale and shaken, overwhelmed by the enemy's sheer numbers. Now, they burst into laughter.
As they watched the ragtag soldiers of Jacaerys' army emerge from the slave town carrying mismatched household furnishings for protection, the air on the walls shifted from dread to ridicule.
The enemy had lost hundreds of men from just a single volley of arrows, and now looked no better than a disorganized mob.
Indeed, that was the truth.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
A second volley was released in perfect unison. Once again, the front lines of Jacaerys' army collapsed in droves. A few fortunate enough to wield thick, solid doors managed to deflect some of the arrows, though even they were not entirely safe.
Those relying on thin bed boards or flimsy window shutters, however, were completely defenseless. The high-velocity arrows, launched with deadly force, pierced straight through their makeshift shields and drove deep into flesh and bone.
Some were struck in the head or vital organs and died instantly. Others, struck but not immediately killed, fell to the ground only to be trampled by the panic-stricken masses pressing in behind them.
Their bodies were crushed into mangled heaps, their screams lost beneath the chaos of the stampede.
Yet the arrow volleys were only the beginning.
WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP!
Massive stones, each the size of a water jar, were hurled by trebuchets stationed just behind the city gates. With a deep, resonant roar, they soared through the air and crashed into the enemy ranks with devastating force.
CRASH! SMASH!
Under the weight and impact of these enormous projectiles, even iron shields would have offered little protection. Makeshift wooden barriers stood no chance. Wood splintered. Flesh was torn. Limbs were severed and flung into the air.
Each boulder landed like a god's hammer, carving bloody paths through the dense crowds of soldiers who had no cover to protect themselves. Men were crushed beneath the falling stones or blasted apart midair, their bodies torn to pieces.
And all of this occurred before the enemy had even reached within a dozen meters of the city walls.
By the time they got that close, nearly sixteen or seventeen hundred men lay dead or dying, more than a tenth of their entire force.
The ground between the slave town and the city had become a killing field.
To the defenders of Tyrosh, the once-feared army of Jacaerys now appeared laughably weak. They no longer saw them as a threat but as a desperate rabble, charging mindlessly toward their own doom.
Their dread was gone, replaced by scorn. This so-called mighty host, they now believed, was utterly beneath contempt.
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[Chapter End's]
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