Thorns of War

The ground trembled as if the earth itself feared what was to come. A storm of dust billowed on the horizon, rising like smoke to choke out the morning sun. Torak sat atop his steed, Ghost, his knuckles pale around the reins. The wind carried the faint echoes of the enemy khalasar—thousands of hooves pounding, hundreds of voices rising like a tidal wave.

Beside him, Nakarro watched the advancing force with sharp, assessing eyes. His jaw tightened as he whispered, "They're vast, Khal. At least a thousand."

Torak didn't flinch. His voice, low and even, cut through the growing tension. "Numbers alone mean nothing, Nakarro. It's the strength of will and unity that turns men into a storm." 

Nakarro gave him a sidelong look and smirked faintly. "Let's hope the wind is in our favor."

Torak nudged Ghost forward, his presence alone drawing the attention of his warriors. They were silent, yet the sound of their horses' restless shifting filled the air like a heartbeat. Torak's gaze swept over them—men he had broken and rebuilt, warriors who had cursed him for his methods but had stayed to learn.

"You see the dust!" Torak called, his voice thunderous, rising above the wind. "You hear the hooves! They think we are weak. That we are few. That we are afraid!" He paused, letting the words hang in the charged silence. "But we are not Dothraki in name alone. We are sharper than their blades, harder than their armor. Today, they will see—discipline beats chaos!"

A resounding roar erupted from his warriors, their swords and shields banging in unison.

The enemy khalasar halted just beyond the reach of arrows. From the swirling dust emerged their Khal—tall, lean, and oozing arrogance. His bare chest gleamed with painted black symbols, and bells in his long braid jingled as he rode forward with three bloodriders. He looked at Torak, his lips curling in a sneer.

"So," the Khal began, spreading his arms wide as though addressing a crowd, "this is the great 'new Khal' we've heard whispers of. The one who hides behind iron and shields, like a frightened child clinging to his mother's skirts."

Torak didn't reply. He let the silence sit, the wind whistling between them like a knife drawn from its sheath.

"Do your men laugh at you, boy?" The Khal's grin widened, predatory. "They should. You disgrace the Dothraki name. Armor? Shields? What next? Will you crawl on your knees and beg for my mercy?"

Torak finally spoke, his tone quiet but carrying weight. "If I'm such a disgrace, why are you here with a thousand riders?"

The Khal's face twitched, but he recovered. "To clean the filth from the land. I will give you one chance: drop your weapons. Bow to me. I may let you hold my horses when I ride."

Torak tilted his head slightly. "Keep talking. Perhaps your men will think you a poet when they bury you."

The Khal's grin vanished, replaced by a snarl. He wheeled his horse around, his braid snapping behind him. "Kill them all!" he roared to his warriors.

Torak turned back to his men, his voice sharp. "Formation Cacti!"

The warriors moved like parts of a single body, dismounting and assembling into tight circles. Shields slammed into the earth with a low, resonant thud, their thick, iron-reinforced edges locking together. Behind them, spearmen braced, their long weapons glinting like thorns.

Torak sat back on Ghost, watching as the defensive formations sprang up like strange, spiked creatures on the battlefield. He forced a smirk at the name—Formation Cacti—and shook his head. If he were here, he'd call me a farmer.

From the enemy side came hesitation. Riders slowed, confused, narrowing their eyes as they approached cautiously.

"What is this?"

"Why do they not charge?"

"Are they hiding like cravens?"

Torak watched with cold calculation. "Come closer," he whispered to himself. "Closer…"

The first wave of enemy riders obliged, driven by curiosity and arrogance. As they neared, they broke into full charges, war cries ripping from their throats.

They waited.

At the last moment—when the enemy was within a spear's thrust—Torak bellowed, "Hold!… Now!"

The spearmen lunged. Long points thrust forward through the small, deliberate gaps between shields, skewering horses and riders alike. Screams rang out—cutting through the thunder of hooves—as the first line crumpled to the ground. Horses screamed in terror, collapsing in tangles of limbs, throwing their riders.

The enemy panicked, turning to avoid the deadly formations only to crash into another "cactus," meeting the same fate.

"I can't move past their shield" one enemy rider shrieked.

"Stay back! Stay back!"

But there was nowhere to go. From the rear, arrows began to rain down, fired with deadly precision from Torak's hidden marksmen. The shafts struck with sickening thuds, piercing shoulders, necks, and backs.

The enemy force fell into chaos. Riders screamed orders no one followed. Horses reared and bolted. Bodies littered the ground, trampled by their own allies.

Torak saw his moment. "With me!" he roared, spurring Ghost forward.

The battlefield became a storm of steel and blood. Torak cut through the chaos like a blade, his sword flashing with every strike. An enemy rider charged him—Torak sidestepped and slashed cleanly across his neck. Another swung a curved blade from behind—Torak turned sharply, his gauntleted fist punching the man from his saddle.

The enemy Khal loomed in the distance. Torak locked eyes with him across the battlefield, his gaze smoldering with intent.

The Khal screamed for his bloodriders. They charged, three against one.

Torak met them head-on.

The first swung low—Torak blocked with his shield, the impact jarring through his bones. He countered with a quick strike, cleaving the man's shoulder open. The second bloodrider lunged from the side—Torak ducked, his blade arcing up into the man's gut. The third screamed, fury blazing in his eyes as he came at Torak with both hands raised high.

Torak met him halfway. He rammed his shield into the man's chest, hearing the crunch of ribs, then finished him with a swift strike to the throat.

The enemy Khal snarled and charged. Their horses collided, swords clashing in a burst of sparks.

"You think your games can change the world?!" the Khal spat, their blades locked.

Torak grunted, forcing him back. "The world is already changing. You're just too blind to see it."

They clashed again—steel ringing, blood spraying. The Khal fought like a man possessed, his strikes furious, wild. Torak stayed calm, blocking, dodging, waiting. Finally, the enemy Khal overextended, his blade slicing air.

Torak seized the opening. He drove his sword into the Khal's side, deep to the hilt.

The Khal gasped, his eyes wide in shock. "You… disgrace…"

Torak twisted the blade. "No. I survive."

He pulled his sword free, letting the body fall.

As the enemy realized their Khal was dead, their resolve shattered. Riders turned and fled, their screams swallowed by the pounding of their retreating hooves.

Torak sat atop Ghost, breathing hard, his armor smeared with blood and dust. Around him, his warriors roared, the sound victorious and primal.

It was over. 

The battlefield lay still, save for the cawing of crows already circling above. Dust settled like a blanket over the fallen. Torak, his chest heaving, raised his bloodied sword high into the air, his voice roaring across the field.

"Victory is ours!"

The cheers erupted like a thunderclap. His khalasar—once uncertain of his strange methods—now screamed his name into the wind. Their chants rose and swelled, reverberating across the plains. "Torak! Torak! Torak!" The warriors slammed weapons against shields, stomped the ground, and whooped like wild beasts.

Torak's gaze turned to the broken remnants of the defeated khalasar—the enemy warriors standing, their blood-soaked braids limp with shame. Slaves, who had watched the battle in fearful silence, now huddled together, uncertain of their fate. Torak urged Ghost forward, his shadow looming tall under the afternoon sun.

"Listen!" Torak's voice cut through the chaos, sharp as steel. The remaining enemy warriors turned their heads toward him, some narrowing their eyes in defiance, others simply defeated. "Your Khal is dead. Your ways died with him." He let the words hang, cold and final. "You have a choice. Follow me and learn the strength of unity. Or leave with your lives but nothing else."

A low murmur swept through the defeated warriors, broken only by Torak's next words.

"I give you the same choice," he said, turning his attention to the slaves. "You are no longer bound. Stay and join me as free men and women, or leave."

Silence followed, heavy and charged. Slowly, one warrior—an older man with a streak of white in his braid—stepped forward and knelt. His voice carried, quiet but firm. "I will follow you, Khal Torak. My life is yours."

Another warrior followed, then another. Soon, dozens of the enemy warriors fell to their knees, pledging their swords. Behind them, the freed slaves murmured in astonished relief, some falling to their knees, others staring wide-eyed at the man who had given them a choice.

"Good," Torak said, satisfaction in his voice. He turned to Nakarro, who had been watching intently. "Seize the weapons, the horses, and all rations of those who choose to leave."

By sundown, the camp swelled with new life. Torak's khalasar, once small and unsure, now teemed with energy. They had gained six hundred warriors, eight hundred workers—freed slaves who now looked to him with wary but hopeful eyes—and over a thousand horses.

As the first fires flickered to life in the camp, Torak strode among his people, his bloodied armor replaced with clean robes. Everywhere he went, he saw it: admiration, respect, and pride.

"Khal Torak!" warriors hailed him as he passed. Some even slapped their fists to their chests in a gesture that had never been part of Dothraki tradition—a new sign of loyalty, borne of Torak's ways.

That evening, the camp erupted in celebration. Fires blazed high, meat roasted on massive spits, and the air filled with the music of drums and flutes. Warriors danced and drank, reliving the battle through raucous retellings. The freed workers joined in cautiously at first, then with growing enthusiasm, laughing and eating alongside their new kin.

Torak sat at the center of it all, a great fire lighting his face. Beside him, his mother, Alaena, watched the revelry with a warm smile.

"You did well, my son," she said, her voice low but brimming with pride. "Your father would have called this madness. But you have given these people something he never could—hope."

Torak glanced at her, his expression softening. "Madness and hope are sometimes the same thing."

Alaena laughed softly, her eyes shining. "Spoken like a true leader."

Malika approached then, carrying a goblet of wine. She handed it to Torak, her stoic mask softened for once. "The men speak of you like a legend already," she said quietly. "They say no Khal has fought as you did today."

Torak smirked, taking the goblet. "Legends are only stories. We still have work to do."

Malika tilted her head slightly, a glimmer of something unreadable in her eyes. "Work will always wait, but tonight, you are their hero."

Torak took a long sip, letting the heat of the wine spread through him. Around him, warriors laughed and sang, their voices carrying into the night.

As the feast stretched into the dark hours, Torak began to notice Marakka's absence. He scanned the camp from his seat by the fire, his sharp gaze picking through faces and shadows. Where is she? he wondered. A flicker of suspicion curled in his chest. Marakka had her ways—playful on the surface but always scheming underneath.

"Up to something again," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he rose to his feet. The wine had made him light on his legs, his thoughts hazy, but he ignored it.

The tent was dark when Torak returned. The firelight from outside cast faint shadows across the fabric walls, dancing like ghosts. He pushed the flap open and stepped inside, his senses alert. The moment he did, he froze.

There, on his bed, sat Marakka.

Her figure was illuminated faintly by a single lantern left burning in the corner, the golden light licking the curves of her bare shoulders and draped form. She wore little more than a thin, silk shawl that clung to her like mist, leaving little to the imagination. Her legs were folded beneath her, her posture languid, yet every inch of her radiated purpose.

"You're late, Torak," she purred, her voice playful yet soft.

Torak stood there, taking her in—the tilt of her chin, the glint in her dark eyes, the mischievous smile that tugged at her lips.

"You missed quite the feast," he said, his voice rough, tinged with suspicion.

Marakka tilted her head, her hair spilling like ink over her shoulder. "Some hungers cannot be satisfied by wine or meat."

Torak arched a brow, his lips twitching. "Is that so?"

Marakka rose slowly, her movements deliberate. She crossed the space between them, her bare feet silent on the rugs. Her fingers brushed lightly against his chest, where his armor had rested hours ago.

"You were magnificent today," she whispered, looking up at him through lowered lashes. "A true Khal."

Torak caught her wrist gently, his gaze searching hers. "And what do you want, Marakka?"

Her smile widened, sly and knowing. "…you"

Then, with a low chuckle, he released her hand and stepped closer, Marakka capturing his lips with her own.